Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang!
by TwistedGoth
Summary: AU. Expert spy Alfred Jones spends his time traipsing around Axis lands, gate-crashing even Nazi balls with ease. But it only takes one alert Wehrmacht soldier to ruin the whole thing. Hold the phone—after an interesting proposition, things will probably work out just fine. Even if the unreadable German is harder to crack than the Enigma itself. Espionage was never so fun! AmeGer
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **: YAY. :D I tried to talk myself into NEVER writing this EVER, but, damn, it just kept calling to me. And in the end, I just gave in to it and was like, alright, do with me what you will. I broke the no Nazi!Germany rule first with **Orange Blossom Special**, but only in spirit because it was set in Sweden and with defector!Germany, so, technically, _this _will be the first story I've ever written actually set and centered in the lion's den of Nazi Germany. Whew. Thank God I chose the ridiculous story for this. ;D

**Warnings! **: AU. Human characters. Violence, language, war, sabotage, spies, Nazis, Spanish soap-opera drama, and more drama, and more clichés than you can shake a stick at. A really bad action movie. Think James Bond!Alfred, which would make it Bond Girl!Ludwig. Only, you know, not literally. Only in conniving spirit! XD In no way meant to be historically accurate, and not really meant to be taken seriously. Just more of a 'sex, lies, and alibis' kinda thing. **Shorter chapters** in this one, since a loser like me can only handle so much fun at once.

**Pairings** : America x Germany. Other characters featured are : England, Prussia, Canada, Austria, Hungary, France, Spain.

Dude, if you couldn't tell just from the title, this is meant to be totally dramatic and totally cheesy. Emphasis on cheesy. ZOMG, this is SO much fun to write. It's nice to do something a little ridiculous after so many heavy stories. I hope you get as much of a kick out of reading this as I did writing it. As always, thanks for reading and reviewing, and updates may be slow. First few chapters will be up pretty quick.

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**Chapter 1**

Blah, blah, blah.

That was what he usually heard when being addressed by others.

He'd been told by nearly everyone he'd ever known that things went in one ear and right out the other, and that maybe he was a little 'self-centered', and that maybe he was a _terrible _listener, and sometimes they'd called him an 'inactive listener' when he just bobbed his head up and down and stared off into space, and maybe sometimes he'd been called 'a great goddamn jerk', but even so...

Blah, blah, blah.

That's what he usually heard.

At least, anyway, when his boss was talkin'.

Okay.

_Especially _when his boss was talkin'.

Yada, yada, yada.

"—completely unprofessional, complete disregard for the safety of your comrades, no respect for your superiors, no restraint, no looking before leaping, no thinking about the consequences of your actions, absolutely _no _sense of caution—"

Blah, blah, blah.

"—as happy to jump into bed as you are into a fight, stopping a mission dead cold to sneak off and—and—_philander_, no ability to stop when you're ahead, and you get distracted so _easily_, and for God's _sake_, _stop _walking out into the middle of fuckin' Berlin and Munich and Bucharest and Budapest to look for blondes!"

Without thinking, Alfred finally opened his mouth in the face of his irate boss, and said, with a hint of pride, "You forgot Vienna and Oslo."

"And Vienna and Oslo—!"

"And Copenhagen."

"A-and Copenhagen!"

He smiled.

His boss was _not _impressed.

"Alfred, I _mean _it!" Arthur cried, as he slammed his palms down onto the desk angrily, "I _really _mean it this time! There's no time for your damn international _romances_—and I use that word lightly—and it's too dangerous this time. You need to be more _careful_. Stop. Think. I know that's asking a lot from you, but _think_. I mean it."

_Ah_!

Arthur _really _meant it _every _time.

He got this same damn speech every single time.

Okay, well, maybe he kinda deserved it.

Just a little.

Maybe he'd accidentally missed a vital drop-off of military codes because he'd been distracted by a sauntering Kriegsmarine who hadn't really minded being tailed and winked at and who had only flashed his pearly-whites when Alfred had caught up to him and brushed a careless hand against his arm, and well, military codes or no, it had certainly been a fun night.

And besides, he had fixed the problem by stealing the Kriegsmarine's uniform while he'd been asleep and sneaking onto the ship, getting the codes his damn self anyway, with the skill that he prided himself on, although he'd certainly never frolic with _that _marine again. Not after the way he'd come bursting out into the street later in only his underwear, shrieking and cursing and nearly catching Alfred wandering off down the block, papers in hands, and despite earning himself a lifelong scorned lover, the chase through the streets had been pretty goddamn fun. For _him_, at least. The marine hadn't had such a good time once his commanders had gotten a hold of him.

Oh well.

Alfred had been able to add a uniform to his collection for his distraction.

Blondes.

Blonds.

Didn't matter.

As long as they were pale-haired and gave pretty smiles, it didn't really matter.

Munich was a particular favorite of his. In the bars that were still open for the better-off members of the community, there was plenty of beer and dirndls and lederhosen all around. God knew he'd spent many a night in drunken stupors in Munich pubs, scoping the scenes for possible company and very rarely leaving disappointed.

His on-and-off partners of sorts, Matthew and Francis, had even given him with the nickname _Dirndl-Jäger_ (which he didn't consider entirely fair, since Francis was no one to judge, and he only spent _half _of his time hunting for dirndls—the other half was devoted entirely to other appealing articles of clothing).

He always had a ball in Munich.

Which was _probably _why Arthur refused to send him to Munich anymore.

Damn.

"And further more," Arthur was quick to add, before he could open his mouth and try to defend himself, "_Stop _putting those goddamn accents into your German! You're not supposed to have an accent, you're supposed to walk amongst them without bringing attention to yourself! Stop trillin' your fuckin' 'r's, and stop putting on that stupid Scandinavian 'ooh'ing..._thing_. Just stop it!"

Alfred opened his mouth, and fell still when Arthur held up a hand.

"Don't. Just don't."

Well.

He _was _going to say that he only slipped accents into his speech when he needed an extra dash of charm and charisma, because some people were just _suckers _for accents, even stuffy Germans.

He used it when he needed an extra boost.

...but not for reasons that Arthur would have condoned anyway, so maybe it was best to stay silent.

Reaching up with a weary hand, Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, squinted his eyes, and breathed, heavily, "So. In conclusion. Just do what I tell you to do this time, and nothing more. Keep focused. Don't let your eyes wander. Just stop. And. Think. Can you do that?"

"Sure can," Alfred was quick to chirp, tucking his hands into his pockets and rolling back his shoulders in what might have been a bit of arrogance.

Arthur heaved a great, beleaguered sigh.

"You're going to Berlin again."

Alfred was glad, for a moment, that Arthur's eyes were squinted closed so that he wasn't able to see the sloppy grin that spread across his face.

Berlin was almost as good as Munich.

A little more guarded and a little drearier, but loaded with handsome soldiers and their pretty secretaries.

Why couldn't Arthur understand that espionage just wasn't the _same_ without a little excitement on the side? Christ almighty, the last thing he ever wanted was to turn into a carbon copy of stuffy, droll Arthur.

He'd keel over dead before he let _that _happen.

"There's a gathering tomorrow night. A party. A ball of sorts, if you will. We're getting some blueprints for a few of the official buildings in the middle of the city, and you'll get the rest of your instructions there. All you have to do is walk in like you're one of them, don't draw attention to yourself, and keep an eye out for your checkpoint. He knows what you look like, so he'll accost you. Just go upstairs with him, take the papers, listen to what he says, and leave in the morning like everyone else. Don't crawl out of the window in the middle of the night, don't piss the checkpoint off by trying to stay in _his _room, and do _not_, under _any _circumstance, lay a _hand _on _any other person _in that building. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Buzz-kill.

But, business was business.

Reaching up and flipping his collar in a fit of confidence, he brushed off Arthur's concerns with a flippant, "Hey, have I ever let you down?"

Arthur only sent him a foul look, but stayed silent.

Because he never _had_.

All of his 'faults' and the ease with which he was distracted were just minor hindrances, but, in the end, he always got his man and always got his papers and _always _met his goal, no matter how long it took or how many rules he had to break along the way.

The great thing about being a spy for hire—while working for Arthur and his men, he followed their orders and rules, but he wasn't bound to any organization or held accountable to any punishments.

He called Arthur boss, but only because he wanted to.

The only things he was in it for were the money, the excitement, the benefits, and the knowledge that he was (in his own little way) helping the cause and forcing the war to a faster end. He'd tried to offer his services back home, but he'd only wanted to fly. Things hadn't turned out like he'd wanted.

His eyes were too bad to be a pilot?

Fuck 'em.

He'd do things his own way.

And so, he'd jumped on a ship and sailed straight for London, not fearing the constant bombings by air and sea, and had worked his way here and there, squirming his way up into underground fame by using what he was good at :

Charm, charisma, fearlessness, aggressiveness, tenacity, persistence, and, above all, self-confidence.

It had been working well for him so far.

To work for Arthur, a trained spy of the MI6, and to know that Arthur trusted him with special tasks, to know that Arthur had known who he _was _when he'd come up and shaken his hand on the street, all of it was a dream come true.

A dream.

The best times of his life had been stuffed inside of a Wehrmacht uniform and walking amongst the enemy.

Better than flying.

By far.

Maybe Arthur regretted him a little bit. Just a little.

"Just go get dressed and get out there. And no fuckin' accents, remember? In, out, fight another day. Get it?"

"Yes, sir!"

With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered off, already preparing a map in his head of how he'd fix his hair and tighten his collar.

So many people to impress!

High-class. High ranks. High brows.

Somewhere along the line, he'd become as concerned with how the German soldiers _saw _him as he was with how he was going to keep them from _seeing _him.

...which was kind of hard to balance.

Appearing impressive without appearing suspicious.

He pulled it off pretty well.

He'd never been caught, not until it was far too late.

Well, he was just that goddamn _good_.

As he reached the door, he heard Arthur mutter under his breath, "Fuckin' showboat."

Showboat?

Yeah.

"I'll give you that one," he called back, as he slipped out, and even Arthur's groan of what could have been misery could not dampen his excitement.

He was going to a party in Berlin.

Time to be a lion in a pit of snakes.

He didn't need to be up in an airplane anymore.

Walking amidst the wolves was just like dancing in the clouds.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N **: Thanks for the reviews, guys. Glad you're excited too. XD Austria and Spain have rather large roles in this story, which I'm glad about, because I've been missin' me some Roderich like crazy!

Perhaps I should say, for those who aren't familiar with my dorky stories, there are three things I never, _ever_ do : I don't do mega idiot!America, I don't do crazy, sadistic Nazi!Germany, and I don't do simpering uke!_anyone_. When I write men, I write _men_. I apologize in advance if that's not your cup o' tea. To each his own. :D

(Holy crap, for me, the pace of this story is like a freakin' sonic boom! XD)

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**Chapter 2**

Getting in hadn't been hard.

Not at all.

But then, Berlin had always been fairly good to him, at least in terms of being completely unaware of him, and it was easier to come here than nearly anywhere else, considering that he'd been renting a flat here since early '42, under the rather unassuming name of Otto Kaufmann (which was also the name printed on the fake ID and Nazi party papers inside of his pocket).

Even if he only occupied it a few times a year, having a safe place to lay low in the middle of the wolf's lair was invaluable, and so was the relief and sense of security it brought.

No one here knew that he was just some poor city kid from America.

Here, he was just one of the club. A member of the party, and the patch on his brown shirt was that of a Community Leader, a perfect rank for spying; not too high, not too low.

Not that it mattered all that much. There were so many goddamn ranks and so many members that didn't wear the right patches that everything was hardly more than a formality, and most high-ranking Nazis probably didn't even know all of the ranks themselves. The eagle and diamonds on his patch could have been easily confused for the eagle and leaves on the shirt of a higher official.

Too much going on.

Hell, he probably could have shown up dressed as a damn general of the army and no one would have batted an eye.

But he reserved playing military men for grittier occasions; in balls like these, it was better to be a Nazi party member, since, to most of _them_, military men were just expendable numbers. Statistics and the like, and they valued themselves higher even though they just sat in Berlin and listened to things unfold on the radio in favor of actually holding a gun.

If he'd come in dressed as a Wehrmacht soldier, they probably would've told him to sit and watch the door or go walk the dogs.

And, unfortunately, dogs didn't tell secrets.

So, he put on the brown shirt, polished his buttons, combed back his hair, and cleaned his glasses until they shined like beacons, and readied himself for the night.

Riding up to the great lit hotel had been exhilarating, like it usually was on the way to a job, and his face of arrogance and stance of confidence as he had walked up to the door had not been an act.

He wasn't worried.

A mere glance at his uniform and the appearance of well-bred haughtiness had earned him an immediate salute, a click of boots, and an open door.

Nope, getting in hadn't been hard at all.

Keeping his hands to himself might be.

Especially in the middle of this ball, where the government men were dressed impeccably and glossed to high-heaven, and where the serving girls wore dirndls so tight that they practically spilled out of them, and where there was alcohol presented before him at every single turn.

Oh, man...

Long night.

Well, at least everything until now had been smooth sailing, and he planned to keep it that way.

All he really had to do was stand still and be pretty and act like a diluted version of himself until the checkpoint came and started to chat him up.

He could do this without getting distracted.

Right.

Stepping into the hotel foyer, surrounded by laughing men and their gleaming wives and food and drink and music, he lifted his shoulders and chin and puffed out his chest, and merged in.

Home, sweet home.

Nothing better than thrusting himself into the center of danger.

Christ, he'd been around Germans so long now that he felt more at ease around them than he did around Arthur's people. Hell, he'd probably even miss the bastards when the war was over and he was no longer needed and had to go back over to the States and assume the boring life of a citizen.

That's why he needed to enjoy it all he could for now.

And besides, it was as much of an art form to charm Germans as it was to actually spy.

Maybe more so.

Subtle stares, quick, heavy looks, careful words and meaningful movements, barely-there brushes and delicate suggestions.

It was nothing like the forward, brash flirting back home.

It was art, pure and simple.

Here, the most subtle and fluent brush across the canvas took the prize.

Once they were lured in, then, and _only _then, could the bold flirting begin.

Germans were certainly the hardest to charm, that was for sure, even harder than the Hungarians and the Romanians, but it was an effort very much worth it.

For all it mattered.

Arthur's drone voice was running relentlessly in his head.

He tucked one hand in his pocket and kept the other neatly behind his back, tilting his head politely to those who acknowledged him and keeping a very alert eye on his surroundings. This party would go on all night and well into the early morning hours, and there was no telling when his checkpoint would show.

He'd keep an eye out, and enjoy himself until then.

Make small talk and paint a bit.

Just a bit.

No harm.

"Drink, sir?" came a sweet voice at his side, and when he turned, he saw a woman standing before him, a tray of beer in her hand as she smiled at him. Short, plump, blond hair bouncing in curls at her shoulders and lips painted rose-red, she peered up at him, and when she stuck out a curvy, voluptuous hip, Alfred only managed a dumb nod of his head.

"Here you are."

She sent him a bright smile and a little lift of her shoulder, and as she turned and wandered off, Alfred brought the stein up to his lips, struggling with the urge to tail after her and wait until she got all of that beer off the tray before he tried his hand at charming her off her feet and upstairs.

_I mean it!_

In the end, Arthur's loud, obnoxious voice in his head kept his feet still.

Fuckin' buzz-kill.

Even when he wasn't around.

Well, the night was young. Maybe after a few beers the damn British alarm clock in his head would run out of batteries.

Taking in the scenery, he loosened up a bit and began to wander around, as walking string bands serenaded the guests and attendants made sure that no one went without a drink.

Well, no one could ever accuse them of lacking style, that was for sure.

As he cruised, he honed in on and identified several officials that he knew by sight, a few high-ranking Nazis and a few government members; the ministers of justice and finance were in a corner, holding a deep conversation in a cloud of cigar smoke, and the minister of foreign affairs was leaning in far too close to a pretty attendant, who popped up and down on her toes and twirled a piece of her hair enticingly.

Big shots, most of these men, content to pretend that everything was still sunshine outside, even as Russian tanks came barreling ever closer and soldiers died out in the mud.

The sun would get blotted out soon.

For now, let them have a good time.

A woman billowed by him as he turned to observe a ticking grandfather clock, and he glanced up, taking in a flash of a very expensive and tasteful green dress and glittering jewelry. Deciding that the ticking would be better used to time the speed of his charm rather than the speed of tanks, he turned on his heel and trailed behind her at a safe distance, watching with careful interest as she weaved in and out of ambling men to come to rest against a wall.

The gleam of the jewelry against the pale skin of a low neckline, and the way she grabbed a beer up from a table and held it in a firm grip that was almost aggressive, were more than enough to rouse his interest, and he followed her trail, taking up a second glass as he approached.

She saw him coming, wrinkled her nose, and quickly found something more interesting to look at.

Nice try.

He didn't give up _that_ easily.

Besides, the women who stood like men and drank like them were more fun to have a go at.

Falling in beside of her, he leaned against the wall, and stared out at the people walking about, pretending to be nonchalant.

She didn't acknowledge him.

Taking a bit of action, he pushed his glasses up his nose and said, "Pretty."

No response, and when he saw the tensing of her shoulders, he added, "The scenery, I mean. They really put on quite a show, don't you think?"

She scoffed a bit, under her breath, and did not spare him a glance.

A challenge.

That was alright.

"So!" he continued, undeterred, "Why so silent tonight?"

Finally, she opened her mouth, and drawled, testily, "Being surrounded by idiots hardly makes good conversation."

Ah.

He sent her his best smile, pinpointing a quirk in her vowels, and was quick to croon, smartly, "_Magyar vagy_?"

She paused for a moment, and then finally lifted her pretty eyes, giving him a moment of her time. "Oh! _Ez már teszi_." She raked him up and down, and the initial air of intimidation slowly dissipated as she started to smile, even if it was a bit condescendingly. "You're a bit smarter than you look, I suppose."

"It's just the glasses."

She gave a scoffed, 'hm!' and then turned her eyes back out to the crowd.

"I didn't think there were any smart men here."

"Well, there are different kinds of smart."

"Only one that matters," she was quick to snip back, and it became obvious to Alfred that she was not in a good mood.

Probably she'd been dragged here against her will by her husband.

"What's your name?" he asked, going out on a limb a bit.

She sent him a quick look of agitation before saying, "That's not your concern."

...right.

Seeing that the outcome for this one was looking rather bleak, he decided to cut to the chase.

Subtle strokes wouldn't work here.

"Well, if you want to know how smart I really am, I'd be more than happy to conduct a private conversation upstairs."

A moment of silence.

And then she lifted her chin, turned her lips up into a sneer, gathered up her dress, and said, as she turned away and glided off, "_A _világ _minden kincséért sem tenném meg_."

Ouch.

"_Ooh_," he called jovially after her, ignoring the sting to his pride, and stared in her wake with a breathless smile as she disappeared.

Well.

Okay, maybe the Hungarians were harder to charm than Germans.

Fish in the sea, etc.

Not really disappointed, he smiled airily as he melded back into the crowd.

No one had singled him out yet.

To pass time and to be safe, he memorized every exit and staircase and the amount of security at each door, in case it would become necessary at a later point and possibly save his skin.

One could never be too careful. Not in this business.

Hours passed.

No sign yet.

He behaved himself, and didn't drink too many beers, keeping his wits about him even as the boredom started to creep in.

Only by following Arthur's rules could being a spy ever possibly be boring.

The foyer became considerably louder and more energetic as intoxication slowly took hold, and now the men were clapping each other on the backs and bursting into loud, barking laughter, the music that the bands played became faster and more hectic, and before long, impromptu dances broke out in in the midst of the crowd.

This atmosphere was much more engaging, and Alfred could only hope that his contact showed up soon, before his self-restraint met its limit.

He refused the tiny glasses of grain alcohol offered, even though he would have liked nothing better than to have a few, in order to keep his head clear enough to comprehend his 'other instructions' when they came. And no doubt that they had something to do with this building or someone in it, because otherwise a simple passing of paper could be done in a much safer setting and without so many spectators.

His gun was tucked very carefully in the back of his belt, hidden beneath the folds of his shirt and safely out of sight.

He could have easily put it in a holster in plain view, but guns were twice as fun when they were kept a secret, and it was better to appear as non-threatening as possible.

He wandered.

Time was dragging.

Being seen alone like this at a party was...kind of sad.

Not desirable for an ego such as his own.

The clocks kept on ticking.

The music slowed.

The swirling crowd split for just a moment; a part in the sea.

A flash.

A different uniform caught his eye, dull green amidst the brown, and he looked over instinctively, thinking before all else that maybe he'd finally caught sight of his checkpoint.

Maybe not.

Immediately, he recognized the uniform of a Wehrmacht, the silver piping on his shoulders that of a medium rank infantry, not a wrinkle visible in the fabric and a shined, well-tended cap held beneath a loose arm.

Strange, to see a relatively low-level soldier (a _real _soldier) here amongst these haughty paramilitary Nazis, and one who wasn't reduced to guard-duty.

Enough to rouse his interest all over again, and, risking a little bit of a distraction, he cut through the crowd, neatly relieving a serving tray of two glasses of Korn as he went, and all of the boredom was gone when the soldier just happened to look up as he approached, and catch his eye.

A lifted brow of moderate interest.

As he came ever closer, Alfred observed his appearance; young, pale, tall, defined and blue-eyed and handsome and very, _very _blond.

Platinum that bordered on nearly being white.

Bingo.

He had a thing for soldiers, anyway.

In the fashion of polite Germans, the soldier quickly averted his gaze, and broke eye contact after only a few seconds.

Time for the artist to get to work.

And even though Arthur had _warned _him, he couldn't _help _but slip a little accent into his speech when he fell in beside the glossed Wehrmacht and said, casually, "Well, if you don't mind me saying, I'm glad to see someone here who's actually pulled their weight."

The soldier looked up at him, hat under arm and observing him with a calm, cool gaze, and Alfred used the moment of silence to hold out the fluted shot glass, and add, "Here. Allow me to express my admiration for the brave soldier."

For a moment, the man before him was completely still, face unreadable and rather tense, but when Alfred pressed the glass forward a bit, he finally reached out, and took it with a polite hand.

"How kind of you," he said, his voice a deep, resonating vibration that was barely audible above the ruckus, "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all year, I think."

"That's a shame!" Alfred replied, as he gave the soldier a quick glance up and down, keeping a courteous distance and loose stance as he tried to make conversation. "We should be throwing balls for our soldiers instead of ourselves. A worthier cause, I think."

The soldier raised a brow, and brought the glass up, putting back the Korn with a wince.

Alfred, feeling confident and secure, carried on, using his words to exude as much charm as possible without scaring the soldier off.

"I for one believe that the real measure of a country is in how we treat our soldiers. To think of that we hold parties at home while our men are still marching in Russia, and that we don't even think about the ones that are here anymore. It's a shame that the officials will always get the glory for the victories, when the whole while they've sat safe and sound. Of course, in a loss they'll claim that the soldiers were at fault and the lines kept breaking. But ah, I believe there aren't any bad soldiers—only bad officers. So I'm glad to see a real soldier here, with all of these politicians."

A silence.

The soldier peered over at him with a lifted chin, and then he sat the empty glass down upon a tray when a server came, and reached up to smooth his hair primly.

"Are you trying to flatter me?" the soldier asked, in a soft, careful voice, and Alfred couldn't help the smile that spread across his face as he downed his own shot quickly.

"_Are _you flattered?" he came back with, a bit evasively, and when the soldier only lifted a shoulder and snorted, Alfred became thoroughly distracted, his eyes so glued to the soldier that he didn't really remember to keep a lookout for his contact.

Better things to do.

Finally, the soldier said, "I am."

"I'm glad. You deserve it."

Well, that was true, at least. It wasn't his country, and they weren't his soldiers, and he didn't want them to be victorious, but, whatever could be said about the politicians and the idiots in the Reichstag, he would always admire and appreciate the bravery and tenacity of soldiers, especially the ferocious German ones, so willing to give their lives for national pride, and to go into hell itself without ever raising their voices in question or protest.

Whatever came out of this war, and however it ended, soldiers should never be labeled with the shortcomings of their leaders.

Brave men shouldering self-righteous imbeciles.

"That's an interesting accent you have," the soldier suddenly murmured after a short silence, hand holding up his chin as he eyed Alfred with a cool interest. "What is it?"

_Oh_!

This was starting to get too tempting.

Damn blonds.

Arthur's voice in his head was effectively shut down, and he gave in.

Unable to keep the sudden puffing of his chest at bay under the gaze of a handsome soldier, macho that he was, he only smiled in satisfaction and said, even though he knew he shouldn't, "Hungarian. Can't you tell?"

"Ah," came the soft, almost coy reply, "You speak so well, I was going to say Tyrolean!" A deep, rumbled, "Charming."

Not-so-subtle strokes to his ego, his worst weakness, and suddenly Alfred found himself less concerned about the high-ranking Nazi officials around him and much more interested in the appealing Wehrmacht soldier that was obviously interested in _him_.

Much, much better outcome than the last.

Better for his pride.

"Do you speak Hungarian?" he asked, mostly as a distraction, as the soldier's pale eyes seemed to be studying his uniform, and he didn't want to put himself in too tough of a spot without it being necessary.

"No."

And Alfred had just opened his mouth to say, 'well, why don't you let me teach you a little?' when the soldier's pretty eyes were suddenly distracted, and he reached up a hand into the air and gave a quick, subdued wave.

Looking over, agitated at having his pickup line ruined, Alfred saw a very well-groomed man in very expensive clothing waving back, a rather thin smile upon his face, bespectacled and dark-haired and obviously very well off, if not looking a bit hassled.

Alfred saw that on his arm was the pretty Hungarian woman he'd been rejected by.

Oops.

Wife of a high official.

That could have been bad for his cover.

The man and his wife bid the soldier a slow, strange farewell with nods of their heads, and when the husband saw Alfred standing there beside of him, he acknowledged him as well.

Alfred inclined his head politely, as no doubt expected and as if he knew the man, and so it surprised and unnerved him a little when the soldier cast him a look that was almost knowing and said, "That's the president of the Reich Bank. Edelstein. Family friend." As though he'd known, somehow, that Alfred didn't know who the passing man was.

...oops.

Family friend, huh? Hadn't he just given a speech about useless politicians?

Ah, hell, he'd put his foot in his mouth before.

He brushed it off.

"Ah," he said, without thinking, "So that's why you're in here and not guarding the door."

Far from offended, the soldier only snorted, eyes still upon the two as if in silent communication, and drawled, "So it would seem."

Alfred wished they'd hurry and leave so he could carry on with his persuasion.

Maybe reading his mind, the woman's gaze lingered on the soldier, and, perhaps in another deliberate jab to Alfred, she blew the Wehrmacht a quick kiss.

The soldier only lifted his chin in acknowledgement, a barely visible twitch of his lips passing as fast as it came, and Alfred was glad that the soldier had not seen him earlier, fumbling a pass at the wife of the president of the Reich Bank.

Embarrassing, to say the least.

Finally, they took their leave, and the soldier returned his eyes back where they damn well belonged : on him.

He tried to carry on as smoothly as possible.

"If you'll allow me," he began with a smile, "I wouldn't mind having another drink with you."

"Why not? It looks like we have the whole night, doesn't it?"

That sounded good to him, and he was quick to wave a waiter over and take up two more shots.

Fuckin' Korn burned like acid going down, but it was definitely a good enabler and sometimes turned 'no' into 'yes'.

What Arthur didn't know wouldn't kill him.

Right?

Right.

And as the hour dragged and the shot went down, when the soldier finally lowered his shoulders (a little) and lifted his brow (a little), Alfred saw the most minuscule signs of agreeability behind the disciplined exterior, and reached out.

He made his move.

Using swift hands to brush down the sleeve of the soldier's impeccable uniform with a very deliberate motion, he kept his face impassive as he said, when the soldier sent him an odd look, "Crumbs."

The soldier looked down at his arm, and quickly back up, his voice as cool as his eyes when he looked over the crowd with mechanical scrutiny.

"Ah," he drawled, very slowly, "Strange. I haven't eaten anything all night."

Door, open.

"You don't say! Well, you must be hungry."

Silence.

And then the soldier smiled, for the first time, and when his teeth gleamed in the light of the chandeliers, Alfred called checkmate with a smile of triumph.

_Damn_, was he an artist!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N **: **Romanostache** : Aw. ;_; That was so sweet. But don't worry too much. My self-deprecation is mostly used as an anchor, of sorts, because I'm usually a ball of constantly bouncing and giggling excitement, so I have to do something to keep myself grounded. Otherwise, I might float away. XD You're so sweet! that totally made my day.

As always, thanks for reading. I don't recommend actually trying to use lame Luftwaffe lines to pick up Germans, btw. XD And yes, it took me ten minutes to force myself (I _literally _had to force myself) to write it down, because it's just that BAD. So bad! I can't even believe I wrote it... Just wait. Ugh.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

He should have waited.

He knew he should have.

But sometimes his self-control was a little...

"Why don't you take a walk with me?"

"Sure!"

..._lacking_.

And even though maybe he should have taken a step backwards, laid everything out in front of him, and told himself that this was too important to let _anything _distract him, he just couldn't keep his hands to himself.

Why couldn't he keep his hands to _himself_?

Arthur would _kill _him—literally—if he could see him now.

Chest puffed out and chin high and smiling in a self-satisfied manner, oblivious to all else around him as his eyes were glued to the immaculate Wehrmacht walking calmly beside of him, feet moving of their own accord and hands reaching out every so often to lightly brush a sleeve, and pulling off a trilling, exuberant Hungarian accent that would have put Zsa Zsa herself to shame. And the soldier wasn't really helping things by playing so coy and sending him those cool glances that just screamed 'tease', and Alfred had a feeling, as the soldier invited him on a seemingly innocent walk down a great hall, that maybe _he _was the one being charmed.

Which didn't happen very often.

He'd certainly gotten more than he'd bargained for.

In a good way.

And, well, if the checkpoint was waiting in the crowded foyer, then let him wait.

Opportunities like these did _not _come around very often.

Oh yeah, Arthur would kill him if he knew what he was up to—in a bad way. He'd probably grab him by the collar, drag him out back, and shoot him in the back of the head like a fuckin' dog if he ever got a whiff of this.

Well, part of being a spy was taking risks.

Maybe this wasn't a necessary risk, exactly, but it sure as hell was a fun one.

"So," the soldier began, his hat tucked neatly under his arm, "I don't think I ever caught your name."

"Ah, well," he began, breezily, "I never caught yours either."

As the soldier sent him a raised brow and a snort that bordered on being sarcastic, Alfred tried to keep the mood light as he leaned in, close enough to smell the subtle cologne the soldier used, and whispered, "Names are just names, right?"

Hopefully so, because after declaring himself Hungarian, it would have been a little bit of an inconvenience if the soldier had, someway or another, come across the papers (which he's stuffed into his waistline next to his gun, just in case) that said Kaufmann.

Drama he didn't need tonight.

He was hoping for a pleasant romp upstairs and then an uneventful journey back down, before he had a new task cast down upon him.

Thankfully, the soldier only smiled, a bit cleverly, and said, "Well, I suppose the best things are the things you don't know."

Truer words had never been spoken!

"You sound like a man after my own heart."

"I doubt that," came the wafting reply, and Alfred, having exceedingly high hopes for this one, decided that there had been enough play and insinuations to go ahead and just be a little bold.

Looking over either shoulder, he took a great care of the surroundings.

The noisy, well-lit foyer was a good ways behind them, long rays of warm light trailing behind them in the dim hallway, as they walked side by side without a sound. There were no other people here, no servers or staff of drunken ministers, and the people that had had too much fun in the lobby were starting to make their way up the staircases to sleep it off up above.

No noises.

They were all alone.

Time to close in before an interruption came.

"Say," he began, keeping his voice a low, smooth croon that most of the girls were suckers for, and the soldier sent him a glance, pale eyes gleaming out from the darkness.

"Hm?"

He cast one last look at his surroundings, and when he saw a door in the middle of the hallway, unguarded and likely a closet, he saw his chance and leapt on it.

Straightening his shoulders and narrowing his eyes, he leaned in, and murmured next to the soldier's ear, "Are you sure you're a Heer?"

The soldier humored him, and only lifted a lazy hand to his chin, staying silent.

"I think you're really a Luftwaffe, because you're blowing me away."

Before he could even see the reaction, he worked his magic, and managed to grab the soldier's wrist with one hand and grab the handle of the door with the other. Hardly a second, and all light was gone as he shoved the Wehrmacht through the closet threshold and shut the door behind him without a sound.

Darkness.

And this was what it felt like to really live, tucked in a small space with no light and with a complete stranger, warm with alcohol and adrenaline and rule-breaking, on the edge and as he wanted; not like Arthur's version of life, which, to _him_, felt like it may as well have been a dull recital of _War and Peace_. In Russian. Long and unending and boring as fuck.

And that was why Arthur's rules were meant to be broken.

For the sake of his sanity.

This was disobedience at its worst, and it was with a feeling of immense satisfaction that he reached down and turned the lock on the door, and grabbed handfuls of the Wehrmacht's pristine uniform, pressing him back into the wall, knocking over a couple of stored brooms in the process.

He wasn't really surprised that there was no refusal and not even the slightest of struggles, because it had been hinted at (in not so many words) for the past hour or two, and besides—once you jumped into a closet, you didn't just go barging out in a huff.

Strange looks.

The hat that the soldier kept under his arm fell to the floor with a soft thud as Alfred forced his arms up so that he could loop his own beneath, and he wasn't really too worried about the checkpoint or drama anymore.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was the handsome soldier that was a breath away, quiet and almost _too _passive, who leaned back and let Alfred do, well...

Anything.

No protesting grunts or shoving at his chest.

Perfect.

This might even be better than the Kriegsmarine had been.

Even if it was just in a closet.

Finally, the soldier opened his mouth, but it was only to quickly chide, in that deep rumble of a voice, "Don't step on my hat."

A very stern command.

Keeping a mind of his feet as best he could for the dark, he whispered, "Yes, sir!" and continued quite merrily about what he had wanted to do since he had first laid eyes on the soldier—get him out of the uniform.

Keeping his knee pressed firmly between the Wehrmacht's legs (just in case he decided to change his mind and try to bolt), he reached up, and fumbled at his tie.

The soldier stood still, breathing easily, and every so often, Alfred caught a gleam of his teeth in the wan light that streamed in beneath the closed door.

Oh, man!

This night had exceeded his expectations.

The tie fell to the floor.

Collar opened, and over-shirt down on the ground next to the soldier's hat, he leaned forward, and set to work with uncanny skill, grabbing the soldier's jacket and snapping off the buttons as quickly as he could.

Hey—if possible, _always _spare the romancing.

If he weren't in such a crunch for time, he would have been more than happy to have spent the entire night upstairs in a bedroom, using his tongue for all it was worth to sweet-talk the hours away and spend quality time with a very beautiful specimen, but, alas.

Time wasn't limitless.

Not tonight.

Faster would be safer.

Not better, but safer.

Not that this was exactly the safest of places, sure, but he had fucked in worse.

Hell, he had wooed an _actual _Luftwaffe pilot right on the airstrip once.

Back in the early days, of course.

He wasn't _quite _so risky now, not that he'd ever admit it aloud, and a closet was just fine.

And besides, this particular German didn't seem to need to be romanced in the least, and that was _fine _with him. Just fine.

The Wehrmacht jacket fell to the heap forming on the ground, and in the flurry of heat and in his haste to undo the soldier's tie and these fastidious buttons that he kept so well secured, Alfred did not really notice that the German's left hand was steadily creeping downward.

Better things to focus on.

Like what a rush of fire it was in the pit of his stomach when he grabbed one of those strong thighs and lifted it up around his waist, or how damn good it felt to bury his face in the crook of the German's neck and use his teeth to make sure that he would leave a mark.

Always had to leave a mark.

His way of saying, 'always remember me!' even if 'always' was just a few days.

That was enough.

A muted barely-there gasp from the soldier, and there was the delightful feel of a strong jaw pressing itself into his neck and a leg wrapped around him, and he just _knew _that this was probably going to be the most fun he had had out here in years—

"What's your name?" the soldier suddenly asked again, breaking the heavy silence, and this time, Alfred was swimming with far too much adrenaline to ignore him.

Besides, maybe he wanted a name just so he'd know what to croon when things got a little, _ah_, more involved.

No problem.

"Miklós," he lied, the first Hungarian surname that popped into his mind, and the soldier gave a deep, throaty, "hm!"

And that's when he realized, as he lowered his teeth from the neck to a strong shoulder, that he probably should have been a little more mindful of where the damn sneaky son of a bitch's hands had wandered.

Because a hand was suddenly in his beltline before he could stop it, and when the soldier lifted his arm back up, Alfred knew (even though he couldn't see) that the Nazi party papers were firmly within his fingers. A second of skin against paper, and he realized that the soldier was dragging his finger across the ink.

Reading it, even in darkness.

Clever.

Well, at least he hadn't grabbed the gun.

This didn't stop the fun.

"Ah," the soldier began, a little eagerly, even as Alfred, thoroughly unconcerned, continued his shoulder-assault, "That's strange. This paper says Kaufmann..."

"Oh, yeah," was all he managed to breathe, "Yeah, yeah, I got lots of names."

"Oh," came the simple response, and the soldier tossed the papers down on the ground with a flourish, and then threw his arms around Alfred's neck in a manner that might have been intentionally alluring, whispering, "Well, you're a man of mystery, aren't you?"

"However much you want."

"Ah."

And he didn't say another word.

...well, _that _had been taken in pretty good stride.

If he'd been in a normal situation, perhaps he would have thought that it had been taken with _too_-good stride, but in all honesty, he was way too over his head to care.

A blond would probably be the end of him one of these days.

Reaching up, he started work on the buttons of the thin shirt that was the soldier's last protection, worrying more about how he was going to accommodate the tall Wehrmacht's long legs in this tiny closet than he was about how he was going to play off his many names later on.

A bedroom would have been a hell of a lot better.

"You know," the German suddenly breathed, deep voice rough and extremely pleasing to Alfred's ears, "It's funny, but I was going to say—"

"Uh huh," Alfred muttered, only half-listening as he took delight in snapping off one of those buttons.

"—that your accent really _is _charming."

"Uh huh."

Another button fell victim.

The first feel of a smooth chest beneath his fingertips.

"In fact, the more I think about it, the more I'm inclined to say that it's almost..."

"Uh huh."

Inactive listener. That's what he was.

His fingers lowered to fumble with the German's belt buckle.

A whisper right in his ear stopped him short.

"...American."

The hot air became somewhat chilly.

And then, before he could speak, something cool and hard pressed into his chest.

For a moment, he was too confused and almost too eager to continue to really worry about it, but when his hand flew down and grabbed something cold, he knew damn well the feel of gun.

Steel.

The soldier fell still against the wall, and for a moment, so did he.

Ah...

Damn.

It was _always _the pretty ones!

Always.

A stunned silence, and then the fire in his veins dulled down, just a bit, and he muttered, lowly, "You little snake!"

He could hear Arthur's voice in his head again, loud as a damn bell.

_You need to be more careful!_

He could hear, too, the German snort in satisfaction.

Great.

"Sorry," he finally said, simply, even though his tone indicated that he was not in the least bit sorry.

Ah, _shit_!

Really?

"You know," Alfred whispered, shifting his weight almost irritably, "They kept tellin' me that I had a weakness for blonds! They said it would get me in trouble one day!"

And so it had.

Arthur kept saying it and kept saying it, and he just kept nodding and nodding.

Fuckin' Christ.

Well, what could he do now?

Slowly, he began to reach behind his back, towards his own gun.

But the hawk-eyed soldier felt his movement, and was quick to say, "Ah, ah, ah! Don't even think about it."

Alfred, muttering under his breath, pulled his hand back in surrender, and placed them upon the soldier's waist in an effort to keep his balance.

"I prefer to go to bed without guns."

"Well," the German muttered back, a bit testily, "You'll have to forgive me, but I'm a little upset that you didn't even have the courtesy to _find _me a bed. The janitor's closet? I'd dare to say that that's a little classless, even for you."

For _him_?

Had his cover been blown?

"I apologize," he began, very carefully, "I didn't know I was having a go at a Sphinx! So is this the part where I die because I didn't answer right?"

A short, thick silence.

And then the soldier gave another snort that was more of a laugh.

"Don't worry too much, Mr. Jones," the German said, lowly and in a voice that sounded all business, "You didn't answer so badly, all things considered, so I'm not going to shoot you right here. Actually, I had been hoping to entertain an audience with you, but your idea of a conversation is obviously...a bit different than mine."

Mr. Jones, eh?

Bastard knew his name, too!

Not good.

"Who are you?"

The German only shrugged a careless shoulder, and said, primly, "A soldier."

Well, that was an understatement.

Had to be workin' for somebody, or, at the very least, he'd encountered another rogue spy.

What were the chances?

He _knew _he should have waited.

Why, oh _why_, couldn't he keep his hands to himself?

"Well!" the soldier suddenly said, a bit too satisfied and amused for Alfred's taste, "It looks like this almost turned out to be some kind of _szomorú vasárnap _thing for you, huh?"

Stunned, and a little agitated, all he managed to ask was, "I thought you didn't speak Hungarian?"

The soldier didn't bat an eye.

"I thought you said your name was Miklós?"

"I kinda lied."

"Well, then, it shouldn't surprise you to know that other people can lie too, Mr. Jones."

Alfred, fighting off the urge to give him a good whack, finally cleared his throat, and began, sternly, "So! Now that that's outta the way, ah—you gonna put the gun down now?"

"No."

Right.

Well...

Hadn't he said he wanted a conversation?

Hadn't shot him yet.

That was good.

May as well carry on.

His agitation evaporated as quickly as it had come.

"Alright, then. Have it your way."

Ignoring the steel pressing into his chest, he reached back up, and set about tugging at the German's belt buckle with cheery humming.

The soldier swatted away his hand, irritably.

"Stop."

"You didn't wanna listen," he said, airily, "I'm not going to, either. You shouldn't've let me get this far before you opened your mouth."

A high-pitched, irate whisper of, "Mr. _Jones_! You're pressing your luck!"

"Shoot me or shut up," was his response, and the soldier cursed under his breath, trying to free himself from the tangle he was in.

"Don't test me."

Shifting his weight and able to keep the German up against the wall quite easily for his good position, Alfred could only try to gauge the true danger of the situation as best he could, using only the German's words and the stillness of the gun as clues. The soldier's voice was almost too impassive to sense whether he was lying or not, but the fact that his leg was still wrapped around Alfred's waist was a pretty good indicator that he really wasn't going to shoot him after all.

Well, he'd never been a stranger to danger, and in all honesty...?

Kind of a turn-on.

He doubted he'd really get shot. Not here; too many people.

"So! What did you have on your mind?" he finally asked, as he continued to fight against the hand swatting him away, and resumed quite cheerfully the undoing of the belt's buckle.

The gun was pressed all the harder into his skin, becoming a bit uncomfortable, and after a hesitation, the German spoke.

"Why don't we go somewhere more appropriate?"

"A bedroom? Sure thing! You got a room upstairs?"

A scoff of annoyance, and the soldier drawled, "This is hardly the place to say what needs to be said. Why don't you set me down, and we can talk about meeting up?"

Well, he didn't mind meeting up again, but he had no intention of setting the German down, and he made it quite clear by standing absolutely still.

"I'm staying at a nice little place down the street," he offered, eagerly, "How about there? We'd have, _ah_, privacy."

A short silence, and then the German sighed.

"Sure. Why not? Tomorrow morning, then. Bright and early. Say, six? Meet me at the clock tower at six, and I'll follow. But I expect a serious encounter. Don't oversleep. A hangover won't be a valid excuse if you show up hours late and I'm forced to shoot you."

"No problem!" he crooned, and lowered his hands down to the German's waist with swift fingers and a bright smile. "Are you always so serious?"

"Always."

"That's a shame. I—"

"And by the way—!"

"Eh?"

The gun grinded into his chest in a deliberately ruthless motion, and the soldier finally hissed out, rather primly, "That was the _worst _pickup line I've ever heard in my entire _life_."

Ouch!

That Hungarian broad must've been more of a mentor than a family friend.

Sounded kind of alike.

"Don't _ever _think you can get away with that again."

Okay, well, _maybe _that line alone had deserved a bullet, but too late now.

All he could do was say, "I'll keep that in mind."

"Good. Tomorrow. Six."

Right.

A meeting, huh?

He could only imagine what it would involve, and quite frankly he was a little pissed off about it, because one meeting per night was _enough_, but he didn't sense any particular danger; if this conniving blond had wanted him dead, he wouldn't have gotten past the first button.

He would listen, then, to what this man had to say.

Hopefully the checkpoint's instructions wouldn't clash with his new appointment, because it would be a bit of a shame to miss another opportunity with _this _one.

Feisty.

He'd worry about that later.

But for now...

"Well," he prodded, hopefully and heavily, "Do I at least still get to fu—"

The click of the hammer.

"Absolutely _not_."

_Damn_!


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N **: Thanks for reading and/or reviewing, as always! I kinda like these short chapters. I should do this more often. XD

* * *

**Chapter 4**

He waited all night.

His checkpoint never showed.

And by the time it was four in the morning and the lobby was completely empty, Alfred finally said, 'fuck it!' and tossed his jacket over his shoulder, stalking off upstairs as he muttered under his breath and fought off the urge to pass out and sleep right there on the steps.

Too much excitement, a little too much Korn, and _way _too much impatience were, as usual, his downfall.

It was better to at least get an hour or so of sleep before he crawled out into the dawn light and met up with his new, ah, 'acquaintance'.

Maybe that would make up for this bust night.

And even as he pushed open his allotted door, he just _knew _that he had fucked it all up. He had gotten distracted (again) and let his eyes wander (again) and thereby had missed his damn checkpoint (again).

It occurred to him that maybe he should just leave Berlin and go straight back out to the fuckin' boondocks, because if he went back to Arthur's, he was gonna get _whacked_.

Whacked.

Like he'd pissed off Al Capone himself.

Christ, he had a feeling there was going to be a brand new Saint Valentine's Day Massacre.

And he would be the star.

Oh, _why _couldn't he ever keep his hands to himself?

He'd messed up big-time.

This might be the end of him. How mortifying! All he'd had to do was stand still and let a man walk up to him and follow simple instructions. And no doubt that the checkpoint had been there for a while, standing up on his toes and scanning above the crowd, and the whole while he'd been tucked back in a corner wooing a damn soldier.

The time spent buried in the closet had probably been when the informant had shaken his head and sighed to himself, 'well, I guess he didn't show!' and wandered off.

Great.

And there was no way to fix this one.

He'd hang low for a while, then, and give Arthur time to cool off.

Trudging towards the bed, he heaved a great sigh and fell face-forward, collapsing onto the bed and drifting into a very fitful sleep.

The same word kept running through his head, even in his dreams.

Idiot.

Idiot.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot, _idiot_!

He felt himself kicking out in restless intervals, and the time flew by far too fast; five-thirty before he really even knew it.

When he rolled back over and pulled himself belatedly to his feet with a sigh, it wasn't really surprising that he felt even worse than when he had lain down in the first place.

Minutes of restless sleep was worse than no sleep at all.

He should have just stayed awake.

Now, he was hardly more than a walking ghost, and didn't even bother to smooth the wrinkles from his suit as he drifted unsteadily down the staircase, no doubt smelling like Korn and shame.

It was chilly outside.

The mist hung low over the sleeping Berlin, everything grey and overcast and a little dreary.

Fitting weather to die in, he supposed.

He hadn't felt this mortified in a long, long time.

And when he rounded the corner and saw the clock tower, the shining gleam of platinum hair didn't even make him feel better.

It was just _that _bad.

Not avoiding puddles and knowing that he looked like the walking dead, Alfred trudged across the street, and came to a stop before the waiting Wehrmacht, sending him a testy look as he did so.

Because it was the soldier's fault, really, that he had missed his target.

Yeah.

The soldier's fault.

Right.

Well, if all else failed, blame shit on someone else. He never failed at that, at least.

But the soldier only sent him a smug, grating leer, and gave a rumbling, throaty laugh.

Alfred sighed, and muttered, "Good morning."

"You're on time!" came the low, guttural response, and Alfred could only shrug a shoulder, too shocked with sleep and exhaustion and self-disappointment to do much else. The soldier, prim and pressed even so early, only lifted out his arm, hat gripped firmly within closed fist, and added, "Lead the way."

And he did.

The streets were empty and silent, and so there wasn't much need for stealth.

Arthur had said once that Berliners were to other Germans like New Yorkers were to other Americans; loud, obnoxious, unconcerned loafers.

Maybe he was right, because surely Munich and Dusseldorf and Dresden were already wide-awake and about their business.

Here, however, most people were still asleep.

No wonder the parliament liked it here so much.

The trip was quick. He hadn't been lying when he said his place was nearby, and it was hardly a ten minute walk from the hotel. Ten minutes of awkward silence and the odd, disconcerting feeling of not necessarily having the upper hand like he was used to.

Unnerving.

He started grumbling to himself when the carefree soldier started humming behind him, and he was still muttering darkly under his breath when he reached his rented flat and pulled out the key.

"Cute place," the soldier said, cheerily, and Alfred only sent him a sharp look over his shoulder, feeling a little used as the German smiled away.

Like he _knew _that he'd fucked Alfred over somehow.

Sneaky son of a bitch.

Now that he was sleep-deprived and annoyed, the handsome soldier was not quite worth all of the trouble he'd caused. And blue eyes and pale hair or no, Alfred was not entirely past whirling around and sucker-punching him in the nose, just because.

But damn pretty face kept him from acting on his anger.

He was such a _sucker _for blondes.

And the little voice of reason in the back of his head was also reminding him that it had been _him _all along that had started the conversation and led it where it had gone. The soldier had just stood there, and never lifted his hand until Alfred had pushed it along.

Eh...

Self-blaming wasn't quite as satisfying.

Easier to say it was the soldier's fault and call it a day.

Slinking through the door without a sound and flipping on the light, he begrudgingly held the door open for the German, who wiped his boots dutifully on the mat and said, politely, "Thank you."

"Welcome."

Well, no one could ever accuse him of being rude, _that _was for sure.

The door clicked gently, and the cool air from outside was cut off.

Silence.

Now what?

He looked around.

This little flat was scarcely furnished, being of use only once in a blue moon. A couch in the living room. A bed and dresser in the bedroom. A stove and a refrigerator in the kitchen.

And that was about it.

The air was stale and musty.

Dust everywhere.

He didn't even have any food in here, so it was out of the question to say, 'Do you want some breakfast?'

The same thing was obviously crossing the prim soldier's mind, as he turned his eyes this way and that, before finally drawling, "So. Company doesn't show up much, huh?"

"Well," Alfred muttered, as he wriggled out of his coat and tossed it carelessly over the back of the couch, "Occupational hazard. I'm sure you understand."

"Indeed."

Taking a step forward, boots heavy on the creaking floorboards, Alfred looked over his shoulder, and saw that the soldier was standing inert.

From the wrinkle of his nose and the lidded eyes, it was obvious that he was reluctant to step foot into such a dusty, decrepit place.

For a moment, he felt a little embarrassed.

"Look," he said, testily, "I don't come here a lot, alright?"

The Wehrmacht lifted a brow and tilted his head to the side like a dog, as if calculating and observing every detail and every minute action, and Alfred realized that he was being _analyzed_.

And that did _not _sit well with him.

It was _his _job to memorize the facial expressions of every possible emotion and to read body language and recognize deceit in simple twitches and gestures. It was _his _job to be on constant alert and pick friends out from enemies without having any words exchanged. To have someone else doing it to _him _was scary as hell.

He shifted and lifted up his shoulder with the intention of waving a hand and snitting, 'Come in or get out,' but before he could utter a word, the soldier's smile had come back up.

"Ah," came the soft, pleasant response, "Like I said, cute place. It really suits you. It really has that, ah, home-away-from-home feel."

At the gentle tease, Alfred felt the frustration fade.

Just a little.

And when the soldier knelt down and removed his boots so as not to dirty up the dusty wooden floor, the leering smile that he sent Alfred was so charming and so intentionally non-threatening that he really couldn't remember why he'd been mad in the first place.

After all, who could stay mad at such a handsome face?

He was probably overreacting a little to the previous night's failure.

Mood a little better as the sleep-shock started to fade, Alfred finally gave a great sigh, and pulled back on his air of dashing in an instant.

"So!" he began, cheerily, "Looks like the couch is a little musty. Why don't we go sit on the bed instead?"

Instead of the same indignant, 'Mr. _Jones_!' that he'd been given the night before, this time the German only rolled back his shoulders and raised his brow, muttering a deep, "Hm!"

And then he crooned, smoothly, "Sure, why not?"

The tone was calm, cool, and suave.

Almost mischievous.

Or maybe knowing.

For the second time, as Alfred led the appealing soldier towards the bedroom, he wondered if maybe he was the one being charmed.

Because this almost felt like it was too good to be true.

A perfect specimen of a German soldier, handsome and well-bred and a little haughty, pale-eyed and pale-haired and chiseled, intelligent and cunning and conniving, and yet here he was, walking at Alfred's side like a placid puppy and acting almost as playful.

Something was amiss, for sure, and no doubt the German _wanted _something.

But even so...

When the bedroom door was pushed open, the soldier ambled breezily over to the closet door and leaned back against it, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyed Alfred with a leer.

Well, he had been hoping that the soldier would have made a beeline for the bed.

Ah, well. He could dream.

Tucking his hands in his pockets, Alfred treaded lightly over, coming to a stop when he was close enough to feel the soldier's breath upon his cheek.

Rather than pulling back from the invasion of his personal space, the soldier bristled in what could have been excitement, and leaned forward.

Their noses nearly touched.

"Shall we begin our conversation, Mr. Jones?"

"Sure," he breathed, feeling himself already being pulled in by that same charm that had screwed him over the night before. "What would you like to talk about?"

A millimeter away.

The soldier 'hm'ed, and then, just when Alfred thought that he was going to get a kiss, he leaned back into the door, and shrugged a careless shoulder.

"Well! So many things to talk about. So many important matters—"

"The most important thing to me," Alfred was quick to interrupt, a little disappointed at the lack of physical contact, "is how exactly you know my goddamn name."

The soldier reached up and smoothed down his glossy hair, and sent Alfred a cunning look.

"Is that really a concern now, Mr. Jones? There are other things at hand."

"It matters to me. I'd like to know how you found me so that I can prevent it from happening again."

The German clicked his tongue, and then smiled, snidely.

"You know... It's funny! I thought that it was going to be _hard _to find you," came the slow, casual drawl, "But it wasn't. In the _least_." The German eyed him up and down, and then added, when he only grinned, "That swagger of yours and the air of undeserved self-satisfaction were kind of a giveaway. And just from what I've seen of you so far, I _don't _think that those are qualities that can be prevented. Not when you're so good at just being yourself."

Alfred brushed off the jab, and carried on quite breezily when it was apparent the soldier was not going to let go of that information.

Well, it would come out, sooner or later.

Better make this most of this while he could.

Because it was true—he _was _good at being himself.

Damn good.

"So, right. I'll keep that in mind. Ah—what were we gonna talk about?"

"Ah."

After a calm, quiet hesitation, the German gave a deep rumble that might have been his masculine version of a giggle, and then reached into his coat, and pulled out a folder.

"You were waiting for this, weren't you?"

And it was like a ton of fuckin' bricks, and his smile dropped like a dead fly.

Oh, goddammit.

_This _was his checkpoint?

He could have keeled over dead, then, because instead of being relieved that he hadn't missed the drop-off, he just knew that this was getting back to Arthur.

Great.

Feeling up his checkpoint in a janitor's closet.

"Oh, _man_," he groaned, _already _hearing Arthur's shrieking in his head, "_You're _my checkpoint? Aw, god_dammit_, you're gonna tell 'em about what happened last night, aren't ya? Ah, goddammit, goddammit, I shoulda known better! I shoulda known it was too good to be true."

The perfect Wehrmacht specimen was suddenly not so perfect anymore.

The deflating of his ego was a little painful, after thinking he'd wooed a great one all on his own (the entire point of the German having really wooed _him _being of little consequence).

The soldier just stared at him, with that grating air of confidence and knowing.

"Fuck."

With that, he hung his head, and heaved a sigh.

Arthur was gonna have his head on a fuckin' platter.

This was worse than missing it altogether.

He could hear it already.

'_Alfred F. Jones, WHY has it come to my attention that you shoved your checkpoint into a closet and molested him when I gave you very specific orders to blah blah blah blah_—'

Goddammit.

The German snorted then, a rather sly gleam in his pale eyes as he said, in a very professional voice, "Well, while I am certainly flattered that I'm just too damn good to be true, I'm _not _your checkpoint."

Alfred jerked his head up, a lurch of alarm shooting through his veins.

The thudding of his heart could not be stifled.

He'd made a mistake, he could feel it already. Something had been missed here.

Something wasn't _right_.

And the alarm only intensified into a blaze when the German, still so damn confident, took a step forward and reached back with a quick hand to pull open the closet door, and said, dryly, "_He _is."

Lightening.

Alfred looked down, and very nearly turned around to leap straight out of the damn window when he saw on the closet floor, bound and mouth taped shut and either unconscious or dead, a man in a disheveled uniform.

Oh.

_Shit_.

But his feet were stuck to the ground with a sudden rush of undeniable curiosity, and the siren that usually came on when he was in a dangerous situation didn't come to life.

Just a strange stillness, and when he finally came back out of the daze of disbelief, he slowly began to realize the situation he had found himself in.

"D'you kill him?" was all he finally managed to ask, and the German lifted a shoulder.

"Just knocked him out," came the somewhat prim response, and with that, the German lifted up his foot behind him and kicked the door shut.

For a moment, they only stared at each other, and then the anxiety and the sense of being _had _came creeping up on Alfred like the winter itself, and he cried, as loudly as he dared, "Ho—how did you know where I was staying? How'd you get _in _here?"

A valid question. Little bastard had been playing it cool when he'd waited for Alfred by the clock tower, walking behind as though he really hadn't known the way, when he'd already been _inside_!

He felt violated.

Vulnerable.

But no anger.

Just one thought.

No one had _ever _gotten him like this.

Not ever.

And God help him, he wanted to know _how_.

He wanted to know _why_.

He wanted to know more about this man who had bested him.

Pieces fell together.

The checkpoint _had _showed last night. Probably much earlier, perhaps when he'd been testing the Hungarian. Somehow, the German had seen him first. Followed him, maybe, and convinced him that _he _was Jones, and then had somehow lured the man back here and knocked him out and tied him up. And then he'd straightened up his clothes and returned to the party, where Alfred had seen him for the first time.

But how had the checkpoint been fooled—?

"Check it out," the German rumbled, and he reached into his pocket and produced a pair of glasses, perching them neatly upon his straight nose with a rather cheeky grin.

And seeing him like that, well...

The resemblance was undeniable.

When the German smiled like that with those goddamn glasses, it was a little easier to understand how the checkpoint had been so easily fooled.

Aw, hell.

"Well," he finally said, as he tried to hold together the broken shards of his pride, "At least you're not ugly."

"Why, _thank _you, Mr. Jones!" came the almost too enthusiastic response, and the soldier plucked the glasses off and tucked them neatly away. "I thought I looked rather dashing. All I had to do was act like—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he interrupted, irritably, "Undeserved air of self-satisfaction, yada yada. I get it."

The German just stood there with eerie patience, and waited.

For what?

"Eh, you gonna give me that folder now?"

A snort.

"Oh, _this_?" Looking down, the soldier tucked the folder under his arm and tilted his head back and forth, as if deep in thought.

Alfred shifted his weight, and tried to get a handle on things.

It didn't get off to a good start, when the soldier finally summed up with, "No. We should have our conversation first."

The aggression was steadily taking over the curiosity, and it was with gritted teeth and a clenched jaw that he decided that the conversation could go fuck itself.

With quick hands and quicker feet, he leapt forward and made a grab for the papers.

But somehow, who knew how, the damn German was quicker.

Another new experience.

Before his fingers could grasp it, the German had yanked the folder up into the safety of the air, far above his head.

And, unfortunately, the meager inch height differential put him in a tight spot, and he was a little too proud to leap up onto his toes and flail in the air like a goddamn fish.

The soldier was obviously envisioning the same thing.

"Oh ho ho, what's this, school?" he cried, quite eagerly, as he successfully held the envelope high enough to where it was out of reach from Alfred's grasping fingers, and the look of triumph upon his face was mortifying.

How had he lost this game?

He'd been unwittingly sent into an ambush.

Shouldn't Arthur's people have been keeping an eye on things from afar? Shouldn't they have discovered this man beforehand?

How had he come out of the blue?

"Give me the goddamn folder!" he spat, fingers grasping only air as he reached, and he was glad that there was no one else here to see him like this.

He was used to being in charge and having the upper hand.

Being used and played was a feeling that he liked to reserve for others.

Not himself.

"Ah, ah, ah!" the soldier chided, as he successfully diverted another attempted snatch, "You can't have it yet! I added a few papers of my own in here, Mr. Jones, and you're not getting _any _of it until you _promise _me that you're going to read them and act accordingly."

Alfred stopped cold, and gawked up the soldier with wide eyes of incredulousness.

"What?" he asked, breathlessly, barely suppressing a laugh, "Wha—what makes you think I'm gonna give a damn about your papers? What makes you think I'm gonna keep any promise that I make to you?"

For a second, there was a silence, and something shifted in the German's cool eyes.

The air changed.

The confidence and knowing that had enveloped the German since they'd met suddenly dissipated.

Now, there was something strange left behind.

A certain vulnerability.

Or maybe desperation.

How swiftly the winds had shifted.

It was this change that kept Alfred's hands still, even when the German had lowered the folder down.

A meeting of gazes.

"Because," came the low, deep whisper, "I heard that you're a man of your word. You'll keep any promise you make, right? So promise me."

Promise?

How could he promise, when he didn't know what he was promising _to_?

When he didn't know what lie there in those papers?

But the soldier was persistent, and now he clutched the folder to his chest as he leaned forward again, repeating, "Promise that you'll do what they say."

"I can't do that," he began, feeling his heart racing, "I don't—"

He broke off when the soldier did something odd :

He lowered his shoulders and his stance, and lowered his head, pressing his face into the side of Alfred's neck with a low, rumbling, "Won't you help?"

Odd.

Odd, yeah.

But it felt damn good.

The shiver down his back at the physical contact and just the _audacity _of it—that this man had had the gall to press a gun into his chest the night before and make demands, and yet now he was tossing aside that tough, disciplined exterior to bury his face in his collar like a...a—

Well, the first thing that came to mind was 'damsel in distress', because that's what it felt like.

He was being _played_.

He _knew _it.

He was being _used_.

It was all too good! Too perfect! That this man could shift tones and moods so accordingly to match Alfred's, that he could calculate and analyze and make changes accordingly.

Alfred had been persistent at the ball. So the soldier had been receptive.

Alfred had been aggressive in the darkness. So the soldier had been passive.

Alfred had been irritated at dawn. So the soldier had been cheery.

And now, seeing Alfred's reluctance, the soldier was being vulnerable.

Playing to every single one of his baser instincts.

Strong and sure and brave as a standard, smiling and being friendly when it was needed, laughing when it was necessary, submitting and patient and calm when the situation called for it, and reserving the weakness and frailty for special situations.

It had all the makings of a master manipulator and someone who was always a step ahead.

Someone who was dangerously smart and treacherously bold.

In other words, someone who was too much goddamn trouble.

But damn it all...

It was that glimmer of vulnerability that did it, whether it was fake or not.

And his own need to be a savior.

How could he say no?

The feel of the soldier's warm breath upon his neck and the feel of his chest pressed against his own was absolutely tantalizing.

The only thing better than wooing pretty faces was saving them.

And that's all there was to it.

To be a hero to a hero.

The spy who could save the soldier.

What his ego needed to thrive.

How could he say no to this?

A man who had seen unspeakable things on the battlefield, who'd killed men and who had no doubt taken bullets, a man who was brave and tenacious and unstoppable, and yet he'd come to _him _for help?

There was no way he could refuse.

No way.

This was everything he craved all in one; excitement, twists and turns, a handsome blond who knew how to get what he wanted, a shakeup to his boring routine, something _new_.

Exhilaration.

He needed to be needed.

And this was the perfect opportunity.

This encounter had not happened by chance, and he was not going to pass it up.

He wanted something more.

Something different.

And the warm body pressed up against his own was practically a guarantee of giving him just that.

He was sold.

Even if he was being played.

And even if he was, then that was fine, just fine, because he was a damn good player, and he was confident that it would be him, in the end, that came out victorious.

He'd go along.

"Well," he finally said, as the soldier's fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt in a very pleasing manner, "I guess it wouldn't hurt, if you need me so badly."

The soldier leaned back, and turned up cool, coy eyes.

"I knew I could come to you," was the suave, pleasing response, and there was the puffing of his chest again.

Damn German seemed to know exactly what he wanted to hear.

"But, you know," he amended, as he took the folder from the soldier's hand with sure fingers, "I don't really do stuff for free..."

"Ah. I see."

A look of false innocence.

"And what's your price, Mr. Jones?"

Well.

That was the easy part.

"Stay with me today."

The soldier smiled, and then lifted up his chin.

"Is that all?"

Too good.

"Well, you have to promise that you'll see me again."

"That shouldn't be a problem, Mr. Jones."

And that was that.

It might bite him in the ass in the future.

It might come back to haunt him.

But he didn't need to worry about that now.

He was living in the moment.

And when he pushed the soldier down onto the bed and played the role of hero, grabbing him in a firm embrace and crooning away words of comfort (in which, of course, he promised to take care of everything and always come running when called), it was very, very easy to forget the outside world.

It didn't really ever occur to him that, perhaps, the soldier might have already been plotting the next move, even as he lied there so placidly upon the bed.

It never occurred to him that he might have been treading into waters that were far too strong to swim against.

"What's your name?" he finally asked, when the sun was high at noon and he had still not had his fill of satisfying cuddling and nuzzling, as content to catch up on a lack of intimate contact as he was to lie here all day and starve to death.

"Ludwig."

"Is there a last name that goes with that?" he asked, teasingly.

But the soldier distracted him easily, almost too easily, by running a hand through his messy hair.

"Just Ludwig."

And, with fingers caressing away, that was good enough.

Just Ludwig, then.

"Well, you can call me Alfred."

And Ludwig just smiled.

If he'd really been aware and alert, he might have heard the ticking of a chess clock somewhere in the distance, and perhaps the low, guttural rumble of Ludwig's voice as he said, dryly, 'Checkmate.'

He was getting in too far over his head, perhaps.

But damn.

Ludwig was hard to say 'no' to.

So, instead of worrying about it, he lied there, letting the hours tick away and not even once hearing Arthur's obnoxious voice in his head.

Ludwig was a good enough reason to stay put in Berlin long after he'd needed to.

The folder sat forlorn upon the dresser.

Kinda hard to remember stuff, when Ludwig's hypnotic voice was rumbling away like a soothing thunderstorm.

He completely forgot about the poor guy in the closet.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **: Thanks so much for reading, guys, and for the awesome reviews! If you have a spare second, I'd love to hear from you.

I LOVE RODERICH. DID YOU KNOW?! I DO. :D

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Rain was falling outside the window.

Dull thudding on the roof. Dim, blue-grey light barely breaking through the corners of the curtains.

Calmness.

A strange, lingering sense of contentment and nostalgia for pleasant times.

Cool sheets.

What a feeling.

Rainy mornings were the best, for both mind and soul.

And even better when you weren't alone.

Few things in life, at least for Alfred, were better than waking up on a cool, grey, rainy morning next to a warm body, and the cuddling and nuzzling that ensued.

He didn't really remember falling asleep; the last thing he recalled was whining about being hungry, which had resulted in Ludwig going out into the evening and bringing him back a paper bag full of food to furnish his bare room, and then he remembered eating together at the table, and dragging Ludwig back into the room for some more enthusiastic spooning.

Ludwig.

Oh, yeah.

That's who was here.

Nice.

Mist clouded the windows.

Turning with a contented grunt, he reached out.

And his hand promptly fell very heavily atop of a very cool, and very vacant, pillow.

Nothing.

It was curious enough to make him open his eyes, and when he found his glasses and sat them atop of his nose, he saw that the bed was, indeed, very empty.

Ludwig was gone.

Ah.

Well, he couldn't honestly say that he was very surprised, and he wasn't really that disappointed, either.

He had a feeling that he had not seen the last of mysterious, conniving Ludwig.

Not by a long shot.

Lifting himself up wearily at the waist, he raised his arms up over his head, allowing himself a pleasant stretch in the grey morning light. As he creaked and groaned, he let his arms fall down onto the cool bedding, and looked around blearily.

Well.

What now?

He could have very easily gone back to sleep, but instead, he decided it would be prudent to haul himself out of bed and make sure that Ludwig really had gone.

A quick search of the small flat, of the living room and the kitchen and the bathroom, as he roamed about in only his wrinkled pants and socks, confirmed that he was alone.

But the bag of food that Ludwig had left him still sat upon the small kitchen table, and Alfred had every intention of sitting down and stuffing whatever was left over into his mouth.

Hungry as hell.

Cuddling was _exhausting_.

'_Where have you BEEN? I thought you'd been blown or gotten killed, I wasted time and manpower looking for you, and you've been yada yada yada_—'

And so was hearing Arthur's voice in his head.

Ugh.

The twinge behind his eyeballs indicated the start of a massive headache.

And no aspirin in sight.

Great.

Retreating into the bedroom before he had breakfast, he reached down onto the floor and picked up his crumbled, wrinkled shirt, tugging it on when the pale hairs on his chest started standing up in the chilly air.

As he connected the buttons, a random glance upwards drew his attention to a flash of gold.

He looked over.

The folder that he had neglected the day before sat there on the dresser where he had left it, and when he approached it with a little curiosity, finishing up his buttons, he noticed that there was a note stuck up on top of it.

Elegant writing in dark blue ink.

Off-white parchment. Expensive.

The smell of must, like an old book.

He picked up the note, and read the quick scribble.

_You promised!_

A tint of ink bleeding through upon the other side led him to flip the piece of paper over, and he was greeted with something else.

_P.S. __— Don't forget about the guy in the closet. He's your problem now._

Oh.

Damn.

_Totally _had forgotten.

Tucking the folder beneath his shirt and into his waistline, he crept over very carefully towards the closet, and stood before the door with a little trepidation.

Reaching out, he took the doorknob in his hand.

For a moment, he stood still in reluctance.

This could either be very awkward, or very hostile.

Well, either way, he couldn't just _leave _the guy in there.

Shit.

No choice.

With a great, deep breath, he straightened up his shoulders, lifted his chin, puffed his chest, and yanked open the door.

Silence.

And then a shuffling.

The dim, dusty light of the rainy morning crept into the dark closet, making the interior visible, and there in the corner, huddled up, was the man that had been knocked unconscious and stuffed in there by Ludwig.

He was awake now, and very much alert.

Frightened.

Bound arms before him, bound feet scratching the floorboards as he pulled his knees up to his chest, mouth taped and trying to kick himself back even farther into the darkness even though he was already against the wall, he squinted up at Alfred, the dim light too bright after being immersed in darkness for so long.

He looked around, back and forth, eyes growing wide as they adjusted to the light, and it was obvious that he was searching for an escape route, even though a daring run would have been impossible to pull off, as bound as he was.

A muffled grunting through the tape.

Pleas.

His brunette hair was messy and tangled and sticking up on one side from where his head had been plastered to the floor for hours. Wide green eyes gawked up at him in fear.

The first thing that crossed Alfred's mind was, 'poor thing'.

Looked like hell.

White as a sheet.

Hungry and thirsty, no doubt.

"Hey, it's alright," Alfred said, calmly, as soon as he found his voice, and knelt down non-threateningly on one knee, holding his hands up in the air. "I'm not gonna hurt you!"

More incomprehensible grumbling.

"I'm gonna take that off, alright?"

The man flinched back a little when Alfred reached forward, but there wasn't really anywhere for him to go, and Alfred grabbed a hold of his collar quite easily.

"Hold still!"

Emphatic mumbling.

And as soon as he ripped the tape off, he heard a great, rattling intake of air, and then a low, bitter hiss that sounded something like, "_Joder_!"

Alfred sat back for a second, allowing the man to breath, and looked him up and down.

Brown uniform.

Nazi party.

As the man ducked his head down atop of his knees and gasped in air, Alfred finally gave a 'hmph', and couldn't help but smile.

"Hey," he drawled, maybe a bit callously, "He fucked you over somethin' good, didn't he? Ah ha ha, how could you have mixed him up for me? _I'm _Jones!"

A second of silence.

The man glared up at him, a foul look upon his face.

"_Well_," came the dry, raspy retort in clean, accent-free German, as his voice cracked from thirst, "Bastard kind of looked like you. Passed himself off pretty well. Had the glasses and everything. Walked like they said you do, too."

"Yeah," Alfred muttered, dryly, as he reached down and grabbed the hassled man by his upper arm and pulled him to his feet. "So I noticed."

"Get me outta this."

"Sure."

Taking the rope within his hands, Alfred yanked at the binds around the man's wrists, attempting to free him even as the man popped up on his toes and looked around the room over his shoulder.

"Where—where _is _the son of a bitch? What'd you do with him? I'm gonna give him a good whacking."

Without looking up, Alfred drawled, casually, "Guess he left on his own."

"You let him leave? You—you _idiot_!"

Ha.

He'd heard that before.

"Well, I _may _be an idiot, sir, but _I _wasn't the one tied up in a closet."

The man sent him a nasty glare.

"Yeah, but you were the one that took an entire goddamn day to let me out."

"Well! I sure didn't hear you knockin'."

"I heard voices."

"Well, you shouldn't have gotten fooled in the first place."

"You shouldn't be a dick."

Yeah.

He'd heard _that _before, too.

"There!" he said, as the ropes fell away, and the man hopped over to the bed, plopping down and leaning over to work at the ropes around his ankles, grumbling the entire time.

"So," Alfred began, as he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, "I got your folder!"

The man looked up above his feet, brow quirked.

"Oh? I'm surprised he gave it to you. Have you looked inside?"

"Not yet."

"Why don't you do that now?" came the almost sarcastic response, and Alfred reached his arm back, pulling the folder out from beneath his shirt.

"I'm Antonio, by the way," the man said, as Alfred lifted up the flap and reached inside.

"I'm Alfred."

"You're from America, right?"

"Yep. You?"

"Spain."

"Ah. Your German's good."

"Thanks. Your's too. Got a little Berliner in there, huh? _Ish_?"

"I try."

"Indeed. Regardless, I would rather have met in different circumstances."

"I'm fine with these," he tossed back, as he pulled out the papers that he had nearly gotten into a hell of a lot of trouble for.

Antonio snorted as he freed himself of the last of the ropes.

"Where's the bathroom?"

"Down the hall."

Without a second longer, Antonio leapt up to his feet and staggered unsteadily towards the door, rushing through the threshold and down the hall.

Probably had to piss like hell.

Alfred giggled a bit, shaking his head as he glanced down at the papers.

The first thing he saw was a picture of a man.

A familiar man.

But he didn't have time to dwell on it; as he held the straight papers within his hands, others suddenly slipped out from the middle and onto the floor.

They had been folded in half, so that they would do just that.

Reaching down, he grabbed them up, and saw another note taped to the back of the first one.

_Hide these!_

Footsteps in the hall made his heart race in alarm, and it was at the very last second that he stuffed the papers down into his beltline and hid them beneath his un-tucked shirt.

Ludwig's paper, surely, hidden in the middle of the others.

He had barely adjusted his clothes when Antonio came walking back in, hair smoothed down and looking a little less white.

"Look at 'em yet?" he asked, as Alfred stared over at him.

"Eh, yeah, this man. Looks familiar."

Antonio sent him a sharp look then, and it became quickly obvious why.

"You were _supposed _to _follow _him," Antonio griped, as he rubbed gingerly at his raw wrists. "You saw him there, didn't you? Edelstein, Reich Bank President?"

A short pause, as Alfred licked his finger and thumbed through the papers, glancing up at Antonio every so often.

Ah, yes.

Edelstein.

Ludwig had pointed him out.

As he glanced through the papers, it was apparent that the folder was full of documents, and many pictures of the man whose wife he'd made a pass at earlier.

"Yeah. I remember him, now. What about him?"

"Well," Antonio began, testily, "The idea was to meet you early and have you get behind Edelstein before he left the ball. Afterwards, your job was _supposed _to be to take care of him. Quietly."

...oh.

The air grew thick.

Arthur had sent him on an assassination?

That had been a long time coming. He hadn't had to kill anyone for a long time.

Wasn't exactly looking forward to doing it some more, but...

Looks like he blew it.

Edelstein was long gone.

Oops.

"Ah," he said, in false airiness, "What, may I ask, are you after him for?"

Reaching up to fix his collar, Antonio looked him up and down, and simply said, "He's a thorn in my side."

"Ah—and, ah, whose side is that?"

"The Popular Front."

Alfred looked up in surprise.

"_Ohh_, the Popular Front? I thought they were defunct."

"We're still around," Antonio muttered, rather primly, as he reached up to scratch irritably at the stubble on his cheeks. "Underground, of course."

"Whatcha got against Edelstein?"

"He's funneling money from the Reich Bank to personally support Franco. As you can imagine, that's rather annoying. Better to cut it off now. The civil war may be over, but not everyone is content to let it stay that way. We want Franco out. One step a time."

"Hm."

Ah, hell.

He hated getting dragged into the goddamn political things.

He shoulda just left Antonio there in the closet.

Well. Too late now.

And Franco was no friend to the Allies.

Which meant that Arthur had probably known all about this before he'd ever sent him out.

Bastard.

"Well, what do you wanna do about it now?" he finally asked, and Antonio rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Hang low here for a few days. He's bound to surface somewhere. When he does, take him out."

Glancing up, the smile that spread across Antonio's face was not necessarily pleasant.

"That soldier that knocked me out. You two are acquainted now, right? Use him if you have to. Edelstein usually shows up at events honoring soldiers. He always stops to shake their hands in the streets. He'll be good bait, if you can get a hold of him."

Alfred snorted.

"What makes you think he'll go along with that?"

He couldn't very well tell his checkpoint that he _couldn't_ use Ludwig, because Ludwig was already well-acquainted with Edelstein.

Family friend.

"Well, since he gave you the folder without destroying it, he might be game. You never can tell who's working for who, can you?"

Well, that was true.

"No," he drawled, lazily. "You sure can't."

"I'm glad we see eye to eye. Keep a look out for Edelstein. Find him. Kill him. And then go home. And now, if you do not _mind_, have a nice fuckin' day."

With that, Antonio whirled around on his heel and stomped out of the room, and when the door slammed so hard that the walls shook, it was apparent that his panties were still in a bunch over being overpowered and humiliated.

Shaking his head with a sigh, Alfred went to the bedroom door and locked it.

Just in case.

Ambling back to the bed, he was quick to throw himself down upon it, lifting himself up to reach down and pull out the papers he'd hidden from sight.

Now.

Let's see what Ludwig wanted him to do.

His head was starting to throb.

Unfolding the papers and glancing up warily towards the door, Alfred cleared his throat, sighed some more just for the hell of it, and looked them over.

He expected documents of similar fashion, maybe something even more sinister than what Antonio had given him.

But there were only two papers.

One, a handwritten note.

The other, a picture of the same man.

Edelstein, smiling with his wife, and Ludwig on her other side, and an unknown man at Ludwig's side, all of them in a chain of embrace.

Obviously before the war had started.

They looked happy. All of them smiling away.

Cozy.

Ha.

Brought back memories of happiness.

Maybe that was intentional on Ludwig's part.

Bringing the note up to his face, he started to read.

Almost immediately, he wished he hadn't.

_Dear Mr. Jones,_

_As you may have by now noticed, the man in the closet has a rather grand task for you. While I'm sure he's spun you some very convincing reason for you to undertake this assassination by yourself, let me begin by reminding you that you have already promised me that you would do what this letter told you to do. And if you don't mind the childishness, I got there first, didn't I? Therefore, you are obligated to do what I say._

_Don't forget that you __promised__._

_First of all, the man in the closet, who I am sure by now you know to be a man by the name of Antonio Carriedo, who goes by several aliases (Karl Müller, Mats Olsson, Miroslav Láska, just to name a few), and who you may also be aware is claiming to be a Spanish rebel, cannot be trusted. Something I cannot stress strongly enough. He cannot, under any circumstance, be trusted. I am sure that that sounds a little hypocritical, coming from a man such as myself, but it's your job as a spy to determine who can and cannot be believed._

_Choose well._

_Second of all, I'm sure you've seen who you're intended to assassinate. As you can imagine, the fact that the target is Roderich Edelstein, the man who practically raised me, makes me a little unhappy. So let me assure you, in the most emphatic of manners, that Edelstein is not an enemy. I repeat (forgive me for sounding like a broken record, but I feel extra stress is needed to get this through __your __head) Edelstein is NOT an enemy._

_That being said, let me direct the conversation now to the promise you made me. You promised that you would follow my instructions. You promised that you would help me. Well, this, Mr. Jones, is the request that I am making of you._

_It's very, very simple, so please pay attention._

_Follow Edelstein, my dear friend. Keep him safe. Watch his back._

_Protect him._

_However, since I wouldn't want to put you in harm's way, I am going to request that you check in with your boss and continue following his orders and also to continue meeting with Carriedo when the occasion calls for it. I wouldn't want to get you in trouble._

_Should they ask, merely state that Edelstein is either far too protected, or simply not appearing in public. I will do all I can on the side to keep Carriedo well distracted._

_Keep Edelstein safe. Don't let any harm befall him. This is very important! And not just for my own personal feelings. Edelstein is not an enemy, no matter what they tell you, and any harm that comes to him with be detrimental to your own causes._

_Should you have second thoughts on the matter, let me, again, remind you that you have given me your word. I very much intend you to keep it! For your honor, Mr. Jones, and also for me._

_I haven't forgotten my end of the bargain. I assure that we will see each other very, very soon._

_Until then, watch my friend's back, and take care of yourself as well. Meet Carriedo, but do not trust him. Don't give him any personal information about yourself._

_Stay safe. _

And that was it.

...

Fuck.

Now his head was _really _hurting.

Oh, goddammit, what the hell had he gotten himself into _now_?

He knew it! He had known that Ludwig was gonna be too much goddamn trouble, but he had let himself be wooed anyway.

Now he was _really_ in a tight spot.

Kill Edelstein.

Don't kill Edelstein.

Trust Antonio.

Don't trust Antonio.

Trust Ludwig.

Don't trust Ludwig.

What the _fuck_?

"_OH_," he groaned miserably to himself, as he dropped the papers onto the bed and reached up to clench his hair, "Why am I so fucking _stupid_? God_dammit_!"

It would have been very easy to either just bury his face in his pillow and cry, or just say fuck 'em both and bail out altogether, but instead he picked up Antonio's papers, and gave them a thorough looking over.

Just to see if he could get some clarity.

But it wasn't really helpful.

Just pictures of Edelstein, a list of places he frequented, and several papers that looked like some kind of bank statements.

The flowing of outgoing money.

Thousands upon thousands of Marks.

Funneling, perhaps.

But the recipient of the money transfers was rather mysterious.

Just letters that had been blacked out.

Huh.

...the hell was goin' on with these guys?

Too much trouble.

He really had screwed himself over this time.

This was what Arthur had been talking about all those times when he had mentioned leaping before looking.

No ability to stop when he was ahead.

Now look at him!

Between a rock and a hard place.

He could only lie there on the bed, head propped up against the headboard and legs crossed before him, and look at the clashing papers he held in either hand.

Antonio on the right.

Ludwig on the left.

Goddammit.

And _this_, he remembered, was why he didn't promise shit to _anyone _before he knew what the fuck it _was_.

Now what?

What could he do?

What could he _do_?

Arthur had sent him to Antonio. Arthur was his boss.

But he had _promised _Ludwig.

Ludwig had roped him in, and now he was stuck.

It would have been easy just to track Edelstein down, shoot him quick in the back of the head, and waltz out of Berlin before anyone ever even knew he'd been there, and he'd never have to see Ludwig again.

But...

He'd given his word.

And maybe it wasn't very bright, and maybe it was dangerous, but Ludwig was exciting and enticing, and he wanted to see him again.

God help him, despite it all, he wanted to see him again.

He wanted to know what all of this was about.

The only thing that got him into trouble more than his libido and thirst for excitement was his goddamn curiosity.

A mystery that needed to be solved.

And one that promised a good prize at the end of the road.

He might have been putting the noose around his own neck, but Ludwig could have shot him. Ludwig could have shot him long before he'd even known that he needed to kill Edelstein.

But he hadn't.

Why?

Alfred prided himself on many things.

And character judgment was one of them.

He wanted to see Ludwig again.

And that was reason enough.

He'd follow Ludwig's advice for now, and see where it led him.

Edelstein's assassination was not a matter of immediate concern, even if he did find out that Ludwig was lying. The world hardly stopped for the president of the Reich Bank.

So, he could take his time, keep an eye on Edelstein, and discover what he could.

He could play this game, too.

He could play both sides.

He could easily appease both Ludwig and Antonio, and find out on his own which one was not to be trusted.

Until then...

He'd do what he'd promised he'd do.

He'd find Edelstein, and keep him safe.

If it made stoic, self-reliant Ludwig smile at him.

Well.

No one could say this wouldn't be a little fun.

Looking at the papers and studying them until he had memorized every single letter, every word, every number, he then did what every good spy would do : he dumped the papers and photos in the trashcan (save for Ludwig's handwritten bit, which he tucked in the dresser), lit a match, and set them on fire.

They went up quick.

No trace they'd ever been there at all.

Sitting back on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, Alfred stared down at the smoldering papers, and couldn't help but smile.

Game, on.

He hit his own clock, marked the time, and started the match.

Ludwig might have been a move ahead, but he could catch up.

He had own tricks.

He'd say checkmate before Ludwig.

He was sure of it.

In the meantime?

He'd enjoy the ride.

Sitting back, he folded his hands behind his head, stared up at the ceiling, and plotted his next move.

He'd set out in the morning.

He kinda hoped that Ludwig would meet him out in the streets for a rendezvous.

Already missing that cool attitude and rumbling voice.

Ludwig's letter floating through his head, Alfred could already feel it.

He was going head over heels.

Nothing better than a challenge.

And Ludwig was just that, in every sense of the word.

He wanted to see him again.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N **: Lazy author is lazy. Thanks for reading and for being patient!

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Slipping through alleys without a sound had always been a skill of his.

Granted, Berlin alleys were a little more difficult to traverse, and he wouldn't lie and say that he had never gotten lost before.

Because he had.

And he kind of had a feeling that he was getting there now, and fast.

The dirty pavement was slick with standing water and morning dew.

A foul smell hung in the air.

That was the thing about alleys—they usually smelled about as good as they looked.

This was the part of the job that wasn't exactly elegant or fun. Just business, and sometimes an unpleasant one. Thrusting his leg out to avoid a wide puddle, he reached out with his hand to grab the damp rock, and guided himself along.

Early dawn.

It was better to set out as early as possible if he was supposed to stalk the streets and look for a man that he had only laid eyes on once, in a city as vast as Berlin.

It didn't really come as much of a surprise that that first day came up with absolutely nothing except getting lost several times, as did the second day and the third after that.

He just wound up retreating back to his little hovel, alone and with nothing to show except for dirty boots and a handful of snacks. The bread might have been best in the morning, but his disappointment was as strong as ever whatever the time of day.

The fourth morning was a little more eventful, and maybe he had been running around without aim for so long that someone else had decided it was time to step in.

He was in the alleys again, peering out into the streets towards the places that all hotshots around here frequented; the last pubs, the quiet library, the banks.

The last thriving places in Berlin, trying to pretend that things were still normal outside.

Sometimes the illusion was broken, and when he stood there in the shadows looking out into the street, one of those damn sirens up on top of the buildings would go off, shrill and frightening and loud enough to make him reach up to cover his ears.

It happened the fourth morning, as he had been scanning the streets, and the when he heard that strange grinding that came first, everyone on the streets froze up like statues, and turned their eyes up to the sky.

Alfred used their immobility to scan them, but Edelstein was not there.

Then the grinding turned into whirring, and then the scream of the alarm, and the people were gone like smoke.

It was just a test, it always was, but as the awful pitch rose and fell, people cleared the streets all the same, and Alfred was left there alone in the alley, hands over his ears and looking up at the sky just in case.

But there weren't ever any bombers.

Just birds, fleeing the shrieking of the siren.

The people stayed inside after, and his searching was done until they came back out.

No one wanted to be in the line of fire should the RAF come flying above the city.

In wartime, no chances were taken.

The streets were empty, so he turned around and went back into the narrow street, hands still protecting his ears as the siren blared right above him, the strength of it making his head ache as he meant to flee back.

He twisted this way and that.

A sharp corner.

And as soon as he rounded it, there was a gun pressed into his chest.

Someone else had stayed out, despite the fearful sirens.

A terrible moment of panic, and his hands flew down from his ears in self-defense.

"Good morning, Mr. Jones!"

A familiar voice, hard to hear for the racket.

A great relief came next.

Because it was just Ludwig, standing there in neat dress, one hand behind his back and the other holding up his Luger, seemingly unfazed by the screeching.

Then again, as a soldier, Ludwig had probably heard his fair share of sirens, and probably in those different frequencies that meant there was something far more sinister coming than just a test.

"Mornin'!" Alfred chirped back, as he reached up to knock the gun away from his skin.

They stared at each other, as they waited for the siren to wind down, and even when it had stopped, he could still hear it ringing in his ears like an explosion.

Rubbing at his ear with an irritable finger, he finally added, "I think I requested that you call me Alfred. Ah—at least when we're alone."

"Oh?" Ludwig drawled, as he put his gun away. "And what shall I call you in the presence of company?"

"Whatever you want."

Ludwig looked him up and down, and then shook his head.

"I see you've been having a little difficulty out here. I hope this isn't past your ability?"

Ow.

"Well!" he snipped back, a bit huffily, "Berlin is a big place, don't you think? You kind of set out in the middle of a maze."

"I thought you could handle it, but I see I have to set you straight." Lifting up his chin to incline it to the street, Ludwig continued, "You'll find my friend coming out of the library in about half an hour."

Alfred stuffed his hands in his pockets as his agitation grew.

"Yeah, and then what?"

"Didn't I tell you already? Follow Edelstein. Keep him safe."

From who?

_He _was the one sent here to kill Edelstein, not anyone else.

At least as far as he knew.

Ludwig might have known more.

"Alright," was all he managed, as Ludwig stared him down, and he found himself looking over either shoulder, just in case.

"It's alright," Ludwig said, lowly. "No one's out here but us."

"Antonio?"

"Occupied."

Well. Alright, then.

He had half an hour to chitchat.

"So," Alfred began, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. "Why don't you tell me what's going on with you guys? All of you. I don't like being in the dark."

Ludwig spared a rare display of emotion.

He laughed.

A deep, rich laugh that, like those horrible bomb sirens, lingered in his ears long after it had ended.

"Mr. Jones! You act as if you expect me to be able to explain the thoughts of every man! I can speak only for myself. I'm just here to protect a friend. Who can possibly say what anyone else is thinking?"

Alfred found it a rather frustrating statement, since Ludwig seemed to know pretty damn well exactly what _he_ was thinking.

Or maybe he just made his thoughts that obvious.

Something he'd have to work on.

Being laughed at was never anything he took lightly, and maybe his voice was a little harsh when he said, "Let me give _you_ a start, then. Nothing comes to mind about money disappearing from the Reichbank and winding up in Franco's hands?"

Ludwig didn't laugh then.

Good.

"You know, I hear your friend Edelstein is the one behind it. I guess you don't know anything about that, either?"

A long, uncomfortable silence, in which Ludwig tapped his fingers against his thighs.

"Well," Ludwig finally, said, his low voice a resonating rumble in the silence, "I won't profess to know everything that Roderich does, but I know that he's a good man, and nothing he does is ever with the intention of hurting people. Ones priorities may not be that of their friends', but that doesn't make them any less sentimental, does it? Roderich is a good man."

Oh?

Say that to the Popular Front, and see what they thought.

Every man could be a good man when they felt so inclined.

"So you don't think funding, say, Franco's Nationalists is hurting anyone?"

Ludwig cast an inspective gaze down to his boots, as he scuffed them on the stones, and then he said, "I hardly concern myself with things outside of Germany, Mr. Jones. I could scarcely care less what Generalissimo Franco does in his own country. I mind my own." Sparing Alfred a look, he added, "Although I know you don't understand that, given where we are."

Alfred shrugged a shoulder.

"What can I say? I like to stick my head where it doesn't belong."

"Oh, that's quite clear."

"What about our friend Antonio?" he came back with. "Clearly you've been minding him."

"Only when he decided he wanted to step foot in my country and meddle. Then he became my concern, as much as you did."

Well, no one could ever accuse Ludwig of being anything but methodical.

Before he could try to speak up, Ludwig carried on, "And that being said, let me remind you of something else : Just because you're an American, and therefore see yourself as a savior, doesn't mean that everyone who is on the other side is automatically a terrible human being. Who are you to say whether Franco is wrong or right? More importantly, why should you care either way?"

"I don't," he answered, and it was true. "It's just business. I go where they tell me to go."

"And you kill who they tell you to kill, without wondering why."

"That's business, too."

He reached out a hand to straighten Ludwig's tie, if only to touch him a little, as the conversation started to get a bit snippy.

Time was almost up, and he didn't want Ludwig to go off in a bad mood.

Ludwig, while chatty, was certainly not as eager to make physical contact as he had been last time, and just stared at him quite patiently until he removed his hand and stepped back.

What a shame.

"I should be going. I have things to attend to, as do you. I'm trusting you with this. I hope you'll trust me, too."

"I'm trying."

With that, Ludwig took a step towards the street, and right before he rounded the corner and disappeared, he looked back, and said, "You know, I've discovered that our friend Antonio has some interesting companions in the OVRA. I wonder how he claims to be so passionately against Franco, and yet has such close personal friends whose only job is to protect Mussolini... Ah, I wonder where he draws the line on that? Curious, isn't it, how people say one thing and mean another? There's something for you to ask him when you see him again."

And then Ludwig was gone, leaving behind a very unpleasant feeling.

Could Antonio have fooled Arthur's people so that they set up this meeting at all? Was Ludwig lying?

After all, who could ever work against Franco and at the same time support Mussolini? Ethically, at least.

He most certainly _would _ask, when he and Antonio crossed paths again.

Until then...

As he looked out from the shadows, the streets were full of people again, and the library doors were being pushed open.

He saw the flash of glasses catching in the sunlight.

Looking both ways, he leapt quickly out of the alley and slipped into the crowd with the smoothness of a fox.

Edelstein was easy to spot, in just the way he dressed and walked.

It was almost like watching a Hapsburg that had come back to life, in the manner that he tied his cravat and kept his chin and brow high up as though it was just second-nature to look down on the people passing by, and the way his feet hit the ground held that elegance of the old world that had been lost. Even as the Third Reich crumbled all around him, he looked as if he'd just come out of an old empire in a book.

Alfred started to follow him.

Whatever his political affiliation, Edelstein was interesting to watch, and maybe, as he stopped in his tracks and then went completely across the street to avoid a stream of dirty water flowing into the gutter, Alfred could see why he might have been endearing to someone like Ludwig.

Edelstein may have been a smart dresser, but he was oblivious to Alfred, completely unaware that there was a man behind him, making the exact same turns on the exact same streets, and maybe Alfred could see, as well, why Ludwig wanted him to keep an eye out.

Edelstein was a sitting duck.

Assassinating him would have been any spy's dream.

No work, in and out in five damn minutes.

It was lucky for this poor man that Alfred was stalking him with the intent to care.

But he followed a little too close, perhaps, and when Edelstein suddenly whirled around without warning, he smacked straight into Alfred's chest.

A mutual pulling apart.

"Oh! I apologize!"

Before Alfred could speak, Edelstein had seen his uniform, and extended a hand.

"I didn't mean to run into you. I realized I was on the wrong street!"

Alfred took his hand, and couldn't help but sigh.

On the wrong street, too?

Poor Edelstein.

Ludwig had been right to assign him a guard.

"It's no problem," he said, and realized that Edelstein was scrutinizing him.

"Say," Edelstein said, as he shook Alfred's hand up and down firmly, "You look familiar. Where have I seen you before?"

Well.

Couldn't hurt to be honest.

For once.

"The other night," he responded, without skipping a beat, "At the hotel. I believe I was speaking to a friend of yours."

Edelstein's eyes lit up a bit in remembrance.

"Ah, yes! That's right. Ha, no wonder I remember you. My Ludwig doesn't have many friends, if any at all, so I was surprised a bit to see him actually speaking to someone."

"Is that so?"

The smile on his face was casual, but he was as surprised as Edelstein.

From what he had seen of Ludwig, he seemed very capable of ensnaring friends when he needed them.

"He's so quiet, I'm surprised he talked to you at all. Well, you must be that charming. I can't even remember the last time I've seen him get out and about, let alone actually hold a conversation."

He laughed, even as a nervousness crept up.

Edelstein, hair blowing in the wind and straightening down his cravat, didn't notice the falling of his smile.

Ludwig had charmed _him_, hadn't he? Not the other way around.

It was a little disconcerting to think that maybe the Ludwig he had met might not have been the 'real' one. Assuming that any version of him yet had been the real one.

Eh.

He _hated _that feeling.

Like he was being had.

That Ludwig was not who he appeared to be.

Or maybe it was just that Edelstein meant that much to Ludwig, to put on this entire act and do all of this work and track him down.

He could forgive that, in the end.

Edelstein made a step.

"What a coincidence that we ran into each other! Literally, it seems. Well, it was a pleasure to see you again. I will have to relay the news to Ludwig."

Alfred gave a polite laugh, and then Edelstein walked back from whence he came.

With a great, beleaguered sigh, Alfred followed him, this time at a much safer distance.

He stayed with Edelstein until the sun was setting. The whole goddamn day, just pushing through people and hiding behind streetlamps whenever Edelstein turned his head, stopping as quick as he could to snatch up a pretzel from a street vendor when he got hungry, and trying not to fall asleep from boredom.

Because Edelstein was _boring_. For all the walking he did, he didn't really _do_ anything. In and out of the library, in and out of the banks, in and out of bakeries, in and out of the banks again, and everything repeated itself.

Couldn't the jerk at least stop for a beer?

He hated that he had to risk stepping inside the banks and making himself look suspicious. God knew oblivious Edelstein wouldn't ever notice him, but a sharp-eyed teller might see him standing there in the corner and call in an officer.

In the library, he had to hide his face behind a newspaper.

The fact that Edelstein had recognized him made this so much harder.

He was glad, almost, when Edelstein finally went up to a car on a different street and stepped inside, and Alfred's guard duty was done for the day.

Edelstein would be safe with his driver as he went home.

Sunset.

As he made his way back to his flat, he made a detour and ducked into a phone booth that was in a very busy place, deeming it a good time to check in and let Arthur know that he wasn't dead.

Punching in numbers to a foreign country, even on a payphone, could be a very dangerous thing, and he kept his eyes on the street.

Only fools let their guard down.

The phone rang, only once.

"_Hello_?"

Arthur's bored voice was somehow comforting.

"Hey!" he said, continuing to speak in German in case the radio waves were being intercepted, "It's me!"

Arthur knew damn well who 'me' was.

A short, blustered, "_Where the fuck have you been_?"

And hearing that old screaming just made him smile. When he spoke again, he decided to antagonize Arthur, if only because it pleased him to do so, and laid on very heavily a springy Norwegian accent.

He kinda missed Arthur when he was gone.

Not that he'd ever say it aloud.

He did miss arguing.

"In Berlin! Remember? I'm right where you told me to be—"

"_I told you to stop with the goddamn accents, you stupid son of a _BITCH!"

He pulled the phone away from his ear with a wince, and Arthur carried on.

"_I've been sitting here thinking you were _dead_, and I'm not gonna lie to you, I wish you were. I really wish you were. I wish your car would have crashed. I wish you'd get run over by a horse. I wish your fuckin' apartment would burn down. If you died I would not shed a tear. Not a tear. Do you hear me_?"

"Yeah, I hear ya," he grumbled back, and tapped his foot as he watched the people pass. "I love you too."

"_What happened_?"

"A mishap. A setback. Don't worry about it."

"_Don't you tell me what to worry about. I'll worry about whatever the hell I feel like." _

"I have a say in this, too, especially since you played me. You knew all along didn't you?"

Arthur, hardly shamed, snipped, "_Of course I did! If I had told you, would it have changed your mind any? Would you have refused to go_?"

Hm.

"...no."

"_Well then! Is everything still in play_?"

Conversation was limited. Words selected carefully.

"Very much so."

That might have been a lie.

"_Then do whatever you need to do. Don't come back until it's done. Call before you leave_."

"Sure will. See you then, brother."

Click.

And that was that.

He went back home, went to bed, thought a little more about Ludwig, and the next day was the exact same thing.

And the day after that one, too.

Edelstein did the same damn things every day.

The banks made him uncomfortable, but there wasn't really much of a choice in the matter.

Still, days later, no sign of Antonio.

No sign of Ludwig, either, although Ludwig was certainly watching him from afar.

Following Edelstein was more punishment than duty, and maybe that was why, on the third day, he bumped into Edelstein again, this time on purpose.

He was _bored_.

He sped ahead of Edelstein, and put himself clearly into the line of vision as he bought a newspaper.

Even so, he was still surprised that the rather unfocused brunette saw him at all.

He could see very shiny shoes come to a halt before him, and when he looked up, pretending to be nonchalant, Edelstein was staring at him with a tilted head.

"Evening," he said, in greeting.

"Ah," Edelstein began, his smooth voice pleasant and maybe a little curious, "It seems we've been running into each other quite a bit lately!"

Alfred engaged him in the polite handshake he offered, and gave a quick, "Hm!"

What could he say to that?

'Get used to it?'

'I'll be stalking you from now on?'

Not exactly a good way to keep cover, although he probably could have.

Finally, he said, "Well, I hope it's a happy coincidence."

Edelstein smiled.

"Indeed."

He placed his hands down in his pockets, and then Edelstein said something that was simultaneously thrilling and horrifying.

"Say, why don't you come over for dinner tomorrow night? Let it be my way of saying thank you."

"Thanks for what?" he asked, as he tried to keep his stance loose and casual.

Edelstein snorted.

"For taking the time to speak to Ludwig, of course. He hasn't been the same since this war started. You can't imagine how happy it makes me to him making a friend. It's really the best thing for him, and I couldn't be more pleased that you bothered to get to know him. Not many people go up to him, you know."

Had Edelstein been able to tell that his ego was his biggest weakness, or had that just been luck?

Didn't matter.

"Of course!" he replied without a second of hesitation. "I think I'm the lucky one, to have met him. I've always admired the soldiers."

And he knew Edelstein did, too, and so it wasn't surprising when Edelstein smiled.

"As do I! So, will you join us?"

"I'd be honored to be hosted by you and your lovely wife."

Edelstein, pleased, nodded his head.

"Well, then, I suppose I'll send you a car tomorrow evening. Is seven alright?"

"Perfect."

He looked about, unable to keep from straightening his collar in his excitement and pride, and added, as an afterthought, "Shall Ludwig be accompanying us?"

Quirking a brow, Edelstein merely said, "I presume so, as he lives in my house."

"Indeed!"

Ah.

Perfect.

Well, he'd gotten a little bit of leverage on Ludwig, in knowing where he stayed.

Now he could just show up unannounced, too.

Couldn't wait.

"Well, I suppose I'll see you then. Ah, I'll need your address."

Smiling, Alfred just rolled back his shoulders, and said, "Ludwig has it."

"Wonderful. Tomorrow. Don't forget."

"Of course."

A polite nod, a twirl of a heel, and Edelstein was continuing his walk down the street, as Alfred lingered behind and watched his back.

Huh.

Didn't seem like such a bad guy, after all.

Kind of unwittingly obnoxious, maybe, but not someone who had earned a first-class execution.

Maybe it was Antonio who was the liar, as Ludwig suggested.

But then again, appearances could be deceiving, so it was best to remain detached and observant and see how everything played out before he started calling Edelstein by his first name and building up a rapport.

Better to stay objective.

He ambled off home, picking up some food on the way, and spent the evening staring off at the wall and fiddling with the radio and wishing it was already tomorrow.

Maybe he should have tailed Edelstein for the rest of the day as every other day, but he was hungry and tired and had other things on his mind.

Besides, he wasn't exactly enthralled at having been reduced to guard duty.

This was far beneath him.

How Ludwig had ever talked him into this, he could not say.

But a nice dinner date would more than make up for it.

He set out his Nazi party uniform, went to bed, hardly dreamed, and morning finally came.

A Saturday.

He spent the morning and afternoon wandering the streets and keeping an eye out for the three men that had gotten him into this mess, but he encountered none of them, and went back home.

Maybe he was getting a little lazy.

He was glad, at any rate, when afternoon faded into evening and he could finally start to focus on primping and preening.

Another skill of his.

He may not have had any food in this house, but he had something more important :

Cologne, and a razor.

Appearances, appearances.

The most important thing out here, far more than not being hungry.

He couldn't very well show up at Edelstein's house, where Ludwig would be waiting, unshaved and smelling like old clothes.

Bad impressions.

He certainly wasn't dressing up and patting cologne all down his neck just because Ludwig was going to be there, no doubt dressed immaculately and well-groomed.

It was just for appearances' sake.

That was all.

If Ludwig just happened to stare at him all night, maybe reaching across the table and brushing his hand in an attempt to retrieve something, or maybe bumping boots beneath the table, then, well, that was just a damn good bonus.

A perk of the job.

Ah, hell, who was he kidding?

It was just to impress Ludwig.

He couldn't have cared less about how Edelstein and his coarse wife thought of him, as long as Ludwig paid him attention and took note of him.

He looked pretty damn good, if he could say so.

It was amazing, really, how different he looked when he actually made an effort to tidy himself up.

Keeping his glasses straight and combing his hair and ironing his clothes really did make him _feel _like a spy, as much as wearing a clerical collar made a priest feel like a priest. He didn't really even need to do anything—all he had to do was step into this sleek brown uniform, and the satisfaction was about the same as if he had just completed a mission.

A good fix.

Especially when he was looked at by others.

In this case, he was hoping that Ludwig would take note of the perfect folds in his uniform, the fresh snipping of his hair and the carefully sculpted shape of his sideburns, the cleanliness of his nails, the smoothing of his brows, the gelling of his hair and even the perfect knot of his tie.

That last one had taken the longest.

Ludwig, who seemed to be a little bit of a perfectionist, would surely appreciate the effort he had put into the minor details.

Pitiful?

Ha. Hardly.

Not with a catch like that.

For some pretty, nameless girl in a pub, yeah, sure, way too much effort. But not this time.

A honk from outside.

His car had arrived.

And not a minute too soon.

He cast the mirror a wide beam, inspecting his teeth and giving himself a good twirl and once-over, and made his way towards the door.

The glossy black car was an appropriate beginning.

At least he didn't feel over-dressed.

He did, however, quickly feel something else as he reached out to take the door handle.

Horror.

Not because of any fault with his clothing, not because he had stepped in a puddle and ruined his shoes, not because his glasses had fallen.

Something simple.

A brush on his shoulder, and a quick burst of silent wind moving his hair.

His heart burst into a trot so fast it made him dizzy, and he wrenched open the car door and leapt inside as quickly as he could, keeping his head low as he sank down into his seat.

The driver gave a polite, "Good evening, sir."

Alfred quickly said, as kindly as he could, "I'm in a great hurry!"

"Yes, sir."

The car started rolling, and the driver apparently understood the meaning of the word 'hurry', going past the average speed.

He was grateful for that, even more so when he finally looked down at his shoulder, and saw the slightest of singe marks on the brown fabric from where a bullet had grazed him.

Oh, shit.

A close one.

Lifting up his head, he pushed himself up in his seat inch by inch, and raised his eyes until he could see the rearview mirror.

Headlights behind them at a relatively close distance, and many more cars behind that one, their bright beams shining through the darkness of the night and turning hazy in the condensation on the window. It was a feeling that was very frightening, and yet certainly thrilling; seeing those lights behind him and not knowing if he was being stalked or not, and for what reason.

He kept his head down low, just in case, and said to the driver, "The faster you can go, the better."

The driver just pressed the pedal.

Trying to keep himself calm, Alfred added, "You seem like you're used to this."

"Most people are in a hurry when they want to see Mr. Edelstein, since it usually involves great sums of money. Not to be presumptuous, sir."

"Not at all."

Pressing himself down into the cushions, he ran his hands down and patted his pockets. Everything he needed was there. Papers, gun, pen and wallet.

But no extra bullets.

He hadn't prepared for this.

Curious, that this sudden encounter with danger had come the same day as the dinner invitation.

He wasn't stupid, no matter how much Arthur liked to throw that word out.

Edelstein, or Ludwig.

One of them had stirred this into action, although _why_, exactly, he could not say.

What reason would either one of them have to try something like this?

Antonio couldn't have known, and who else here even knew who he was?

The car ride was fast, and passed mostly in a jittery blur.

He was excited. He loved that feeling. Nothing quite like it. Whether the excitement came from being around Ludwig or being shot at didn't really matter.

Minutes later, when the car pulled to a stop after crawling up a long, well-tended drive and there were no more headlights behind them, he was all but bouncing up and down in the seat, and didn't hesitate to leap out as soon as it stopped moving.

Looking over either shoulder and keeping a hand on his gun, he ran up to the steps.

Nice house.

Arched windows. Tiled roof. Light from within, glowing from the inside out. Smoke from the chimney.

A great yard, surrounded by tall trees and hedges and a fence.

In the distance, tops of buildings, lit up by people still working. A good place for a sniper to crouch.

Above, a black sky filled with stars and a crescent moon.

A good night for having dinner.

Or being gunned down.

Even with the threat of an unseen enemy, he still stopped and smoothed down his shirt and hair and took a final second to shine his glasses before he bounded up to the front door and knocked.

He had been expected, and a second knock was not necessary.

The door opened.

And it was exactly who he wanted to see.

Ludwig.

Dressed in neat, well-tailored clothes that were not too formal, he stood there in the frame, hair slicked back perfectly and everything in place, and for a moment he didn't speak.

He just stared at Alfred with a very blank, very unreadable expression.

Alfred, on the other hand, was beaming.

He was pretty sure his cheeks were flushed with adrenaline and excitement.

"Good evening," he said, as Ludwig looked him up and down in scrutiny. "Nice night, huh?"

He hoped that Ludwig would say something along the lines of, 'not as good as the last one.'

But, of course, he didn't, but he did finally break his impassiveness with a smile.

Well.

Ludwig's smile was more like the result of a leer and a sneer melding together. A strange look of annoyance and self-satisfaction. As if he knew exactly what was happening, and exactly what was running through Alfred's head.

Pale eyes fell down to the singe on his shoulder.

And he knew then—Ludwig had done this.

Ludwig had sent someone out, to either attempt to scare him off or to intimidate him, or maybe just to let him know who was boss around here.

A little eccentric.

Still attractive, though.

A click in the distance broke the stillness of the night, and the horrible and yet exhilarating rush of absolute adrenaline it brought made him take a step forward, knowing that his pupils had dilated.

Being scoped out from a distance.

"May I come in?"

Ludwig raised a hand up to his chin and stared at him with a brow of absolutely carefree laziness, and finally asked, "Something wrong, Mr. Jones?"

He wanted to say, 'Your guy is about to shoot me, so let me in,' but doing so would have only made him appear, for lack of a better word, weak.

Ludwig was testing him.

So he just gritted his teeth, took a burning breath, and said, "I don't know what you mean."

He could feel his skin tingling as the urgency grew.

Had Ludwig's sniper been given orders to spook or incapacitate or kill?

He could practically feel the target on his back.

Ludwig's eyes flitted up, just a fraction of a second, an eagle scoping the dark scenery, and then he snorted, and granted asylum.

"Oh. I see. _Please_," he finally drawled, as he held open the door, "Come in."

And Alfred did.

When he brushed by Ludwig, stopping in the threshold to turn his head and give him a good staring down, Ludwig just stared back, and cool air was not so cool anymore.

Then the door shut behind them.

The threat of assassination was gone.

Dinner, now. That was all.

He didn't remember a meal being so damn difficult back home.

Apparently, Ludwig took a dinner invitation very, very seriously.

God help him if he asked to spend the night.


End file.
